


Rise and Fall

by Danse-or-Farkas (Markond)



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-11
Updated: 2019-07-15
Packaged: 2019-09-16 02:39:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 26
Words: 67,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16945407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Markond/pseuds/Danse-or-Farkas
Summary: All of the important days between the Dragonborn, Adrian of Jehenna, and Farkas, Shield Brother of the Companions.





	1. A More Reasonable Number of Dragons

 

 

Farkas trudged into the hall, tired to the bone and desiring nothing but to sleep. Dawn had come and gone some time ago, the market in the lower district just setting up as he had shambled past. Ysolda had offered him a polite smile, enquiring if Tilma was going to picking up their standing order later. Farkas could barely understand the words and gave a non-committal answer. Alduin himself could have dropped into his lap and he would have brushed him off in favour of his bed, awakening later to a second Helgen.

 

He found Vilkas out in the training yard, apparently putting some potential new recruit through their paces. He got barely a nod from his brother, too engaged in testing their sword arm to divert his attentions. He did however notice the unusual blade the newcomer was wielding, Akaviri in origin and clearly not owned by someone who knew how to maintain the fairly fragile edge. It was chipped and improperly oiled, though was otherwise of fairly exceptional craftsmanship.

 

Somehow his feet managed to guide him to his quarters, getting about half of his armour off before his will completely failed and sleep took him.

 

He had no idea just how long he had been asleep when Skjor yelling down the hall woke him, but it was not anywhere near long enough. Blearily he hauled himself out of bed, took a moment to gain his bearing and found where they were waiting for him.

 

“Did you call me?” He leaned against the door frame, blinking a few too many times to try and force his eyes to focus, with little success.

 

“Of course we did Icebrain.” Aela was shaking her head. He scowled at the name but otherwise let it pass. “Show the new blood where they can rest their head.”

 

“New blood?” Farkas looked around for a new warrior and instead found somebody less. He took stock of the man, recognising the ill cared for sword first. He had bright eyes, too bright to be of fully human descent. Breton, and one with a little too much Altmer blood too close to the surface. “I think I remember you. Follow me.”

 

The Breton fell into step with him easily, leaving Skjor and Aela to whatever it was they had been discussing beforehand.

 

“Are they always like that with you?” He spoke after a moment and sounded genuinely concerned, a mild frown on his features.

 

“Skjor and Aela like to tease, but they're good people.” Farkas took the silence as a prompt to say a little more. “They challenge us to be at our best.”

 

“Can't say I like it. No great warrior deserves to be spoken down to.” He spoke as if from experience, counter to how he looked and carried himself.

 

Farkas was oddly taken aback by the comment. First that he had been recognised as a great warrior, a compliment in and of itself, second was that he had a fair point.

 

“That's noble of you. Keep ahold of that spirit, this is a rough life we lead and it easy to forget why we do it. And its nice to have a new face around here too.” Farkas offhanded motioned to the room full of beds. “Pick any bed and fall into it when your tired, the other new bloods sleep here. You'll want to meet them when they get back from their jobs.”

 

“Thanks for showing me around.” He smiled warmly up to him, dropping his travel pack on the bed in the furthest corner from the door.

 

“No problem. I'll have work for you when you want it. Later. Find me when I’ve had a chance to sleep. Or Aela. Whatever works.” Farkas left him in the whelp quarters. He had already crawled into bed when it occurred to him that he had forgotten to ask for their name, and that he hoped they wouldn’t wind up dead in less than a month like a lot of the nicer recruits did. It was always the soft hearted ones that got themselves killed.  
  


 

* * *

 

  


Farkas awoke at some point after the sun had set, still deeply tired but less than he was hungry. The scent of fresh food had found its way under the door to his quarters, the growl of his stomach as loud as thunder and twice as insistent.

 

He dressed lightly, a smaller sword that his usual tied to his hip, and made his way upstairs.

 

Aela was waiting for him. Apparently the newblood had sought her out on his advice, and had been sent on a job halfway across the Hold. He had reported back a few hours ago, taken his pay and passed out as soon as he had found his bed. Since Farkas was the last to arrive, baring the obvious, it was his responsibility to go fetch him.

 

He grumbled about it but did as she asked. He found them exactly where she had said; a travel pack, a pile of armour and a sword scattered on the floor next to him. He hadn’t even gotten under the covers. From what he could see they had managed to undress only to their bare chest before passing out right where they fell. Farkas could at least sympathise, but not enough to stop him giving them a harsh shove.

 

The Breton stirred awake, mumbling 'you' before burying his head in his pillow again.

 

“Yes me, out of bed before I tip water on you.” Farkas grumbled again.

 

“Fine.” The Breton quite literally rolled out of bed, hitting the floor with the groan. “Happy?”

 

“Not really.” He took a mental note that the new blood was one to back chat. He was going to get on with the other new recruits like a slaughterfish took to a river full of bathers; it was going to be interesting to watch and there would probably be blood. He hoped the recruit had the sense to bite his tongue around Aela, she would shred him to pieces if he tried that with her.

 

“You look a lot better for having slept.” He was now lying on the floor looking upwards, but seemed a decent amount more awake.

 

“You saying I looked ugly before?” It was spoken only half seriously.

 

“I'm saying you looked exhausted. I'm glad you're rested now.” There it was again, that concern. Farkas wasn’t quite sure how to respond, just shrugging it off instead.

 

“I didn’t catch your name earlier. I suggest you give me one, unless you want to just be called 'Whelp' from now on.”

 

“Adrian.”

 

“I'm Farkas.”

 

“Nice to meet you. Help me up?” Adrian flailed an arm, Farkas taking it with a roll of his eyes and yanking him upright so hard he yelped. Any harder and they would have had to drag him to the Temple of Kynereth to get his shoulder put back in its socket.

 

“Get dressed, its food time.”

 

“Thanks for not letting me sleep through.”

 

“Welcome.” Farkas watched him a moment, oddly endeared by the way he scrunched his eyes shut to yawn and the fact he wasn’t a scrawny runt like he had first expected. He wasn’t built for a heavy weapon like Farkas was, but he at least looked fast and capable. Not harsh on the eyes at all.

 

His scent was unusual, smoky like burnt wood left to cool. He had to wonder if they had been through the still smouldering ruins of Helgen recently, enough that the old ash had clung to him. When Helgen was burning the Circle could smell it on the northbound winds, lingering for weeks after.

 

He realised he had been staring when his attention was drawn to the tensing of his stomach muscles as he stretched. It had been far to long since he had indulged in those sort of pleasures, he wasn’t usually one to look unless it had been a good while. He could already hear his brother berating him for lowering his standards.

 

He hadn’t even realised he had been lost in his thoughts until the Breton, Adrian, said something that he completely missed.

 

“Sorry, what?”

 

“I said I was ready, and you were standing right in the doorway.”

 

“Sorry about that.”  


Farkas and Adrian entered the main hall at an odd moment in the conversation, finding two seats free next to each other.

 

Adrian was quick to grab food, briefly checking that Kodlak was eating before doing so.

 

“What about you, Dunmer? What is your good death?” Aela motioned to Athis, who had been more invested in his food than the topic until that moment.

 

“I think my people have ran out of those years ago. If I had a choice it would be battling The Sixth House, maybe even striking a blow against the Sharmat himself in the depths of his citadel.” He took a moment to consider, pensive and contemplative.

 

“Two hundred odd years late to that I think.” Kodlak scoffed. “Didn’t one of your folk heroes slay that old demon?”

 

“The Nerevarine, yes. What a fight it must have been, I would give anything to know just what happened, the glorious blows struck and great magics unleashed in their duel to the death.”

 

Adrian knew exactly what had happened; the Nerevarine had spent a good portion of their climactic duel using what amounted to an enchanted butter knife, the so called 'steel blade of heaven', to levitate around the chamber until the opportunity arose to take a magic hammer to the heart of a dead god and then run as fast as possible.

 

He had been told that story twice, first a very much embellished version by the champion of Azura with the Moon and Star still glittering on his finger, and then the true version of events by the champion of Sheogorath swinging a walking stick of shadetree wood as he laughed at the indignity of his dearest brother.

 

History had almost forgotten their family, it just remembered the individuals. It shouldn’t have been a surprise to discover he was Dragonborn, something unnatural was bound to crop up sooner or later given how many different entities divine or otherwise had gotten their hands on his bloodline.

 

“What about you brother, you must have some thoughts on the topic?” Vilkas motioned toward Farkas, spilling a little of the mead from his tankard.

 

“How I want to die?”

 

“Don't just say 'in battle', put a little thought into it.” There was a rolling of eyes.

 

Farkas had most definitely been about to say 'in battle' until Vilkas caught him out.

 

“How realistic do I have to be?”

 

“Athis needs timetravel to die properly, you tell me?” Aela butted in with a raised eyebrow and a heavy lashing of sarcasm.

 

“I want a lover nearby to witness it, and properly mourn me afterwards. And it has to be a dragon, no two dragons, maybe three. And I should be fighting to save Skyrim.”

 

“If you haven’t heard, the Dragonborn is doing a pretty good job of clearing up the dragon problem. So that idea will go down the privy pretty soon. I suggest a more reasonable amount of dragons.” Vilkas laughed, taking a sip of his mead.

 

Adrian was staring down the bottom of his flagon of water, not making eye contact with anybody, trying far too hard not to be noticed.

 

Esbern's warning rang loudly in his mind, that he could ill afford the kind of attention being Dragonborn brought. Too many powerful entities could try to bend him to their purpose, or failing that sweep him from the board. The Thalmor were certainly looking for him after the incident at the embassy. He needed to be subtle, at least until he was ready to defend himself.

 

Luckily nobody was looking in his direction. What they had noticed was that he wasn't drinking mead, he wasn't even drinking milk.

 

“Two and a half dragons. That’s as low as I’m willing to go.” Farkas lowered his cup and folded his arm over his chest defensively.

 

“You've got to admit, he's a shrewd negotiator.” Kodlak guffawed from his space at the head of the table.

 

“How do you get half a dragon?” Athis was wondering just far this madness would go.

 

“Give me half an hour and a sharp enough knife.” According to Aela apparently the madness would go quite far.

 

“Well then, if not dragons then the sword that fells me better be the finest work of a master swordsmith. I want it cost as much as a small house. And afterwards it goes into a vault, to remind people of what they've lost.” Farkas turned to Kodlak. “What about you old man?”

 

“Right here in Jorrvaskr, probably during lunch so I get the last pleasure of ruining your day. And I hope I drop dead in full armour somewhere inconvenient so you whelps have to drag these old bones up to the Skyforge yourself.”

 

“Awfully bitter Kodlak. Did you wake up this morning with the cold getting to your knees again?”

 

“Waking up to a hall full of pampered pups is more than enough, I could be twenty summers young and still be tired of you all.” He only half meant it. He was proud of each and every one of them, but he also knew deep down that they were all very deeply flawed. Aela was impulsive, Skjor was foolhardy, Vilkas was prideful in how he planned, Farkas didn't plan anything at all, Athis was overconfident, Ria had her head in the clouds, Torvar had his head in the booze, and Njada could impolitely be called a bitch. And then there was Adrian. Already he could see it behind the meekness, behind the need to not be noticed there was a hunger, the kind Kodlak had seen in young warriors before. It was the kind of hunger that would consume the world and demand yet more if given too much power. Time would usually temper it into something a little more productive, at least in the ones that survived.

 

“Skjor?” Farkas motioned offhandedly to him, expecting an answer.

 

“Surrounded by what’s left of my enemies.” A blunt response, and one he was not going to elaborate on.

 

“What about the new whelp? How are they going to kick it?” Njada motioned to Adrian, glad that the topic was away from the Dragonborn and mortified that all eyes in the room where now in him.

 

“First off you are just as green as he is, whelp.” Farkas started bluntly. Vilkas raised an eyebrow at him but made no comment, Aela knew instantly that the idiot had already gotten himself attached like he always did to the new recruits.

 

“You can't play at being high and mighty when you're in the gutter too.” Vilkas finished a little more eloquently, drawing the same unfortunate conclusion Aela had. “The point at hand, Breton. How do you want to die?”

 

“Usually that line is being screamed at me by a bandit with a weapon as tall as I am.” Adrian tried to keep the tone light, babbling to buy himself a moment to think. At least Athis let out a single chuckle. “Preferably never. If not I'm from a highborn family so I'm pretty sure I can make it to one hundred forty, maybe fifty if I eat right. It'll probably be poison I’ve drank without realising, knowing my luck it'll be subtle and I won't even notice it. Maybe dying after stopping a war would be nice, leave a legacy.”

 

“A lofty goal, but a noble one I suppose.” Kodlak spoke, rubbing his chin sagely. “A less gloomy topic now perhaps, today our numbers have grown. We should be celebrating.”

 

“To the whelp.” Farkas raised his tankard.

 

“To the whelp!” The hall echoed.

 

“To Adrian, newest of the Companions.” He added.

 

“Just Adrian?” Kodlak bellowed with a little mead inspiration. “What clan or hold do you hail from?”

 

“Never had one.” Not technically true, but his family name he had was one they would not believe. It had too much history to have made someone like him.

 

“What city do you hail from then?”

 

“Jehenna, and later Evermore.”

 

“To Adrian of Jehenna!” They all drank.

 

Adrian buried his face in his hands to hide the warm glow of embarrassment lighting his cheeks, but there was a smile under it all and a pleasantness he hadn’t been expecting. It had only been a day and already it was starting to feel right for him.

 

He just had to hope that they could properly prepare him to fight Alduin, the Eater of Worlds.

 

 

 


	2. Something Better

 

 

 

 

Adrian had been assisting Tilma, something that she had not expected from a Companion. Nobody had said anything, at least to his face, but his desire to constantly help everyone around him bordered on unusual. It was not an uncommon trait in adventurers, just not one that suited mercenaries very well. Adventurers found work and pay making themselves useful, mercenaries had the work and pay come to them.

 

She was more than glad to have both company and a quicker set of hands, even if it was just having him pick up the guilds standing order from the market to save her the journey. Between them they had planned and noted exactly what supplies they had and what would be needed, the next few weeks meals planned and prepared for. Adrian should have expected it but was no less disappointed to discover that the Companions diets could be summed up as meat and booze. He had taken a little of his own money and grabbed a few ingredient considered fairly exotic by Nord standards.

 

Adrian had been whipping and folding a honey sweetened cream while Tilma was preparing the pastry when the front doors to the hall flew open, Farkas swaggering in looking quite proud of himself. To the best of his knowledge there was nobody else around, Vilkas was out in the field with the whelps taking them out into The Reach for some kind of survival training, Aela and Skjor had vanished late into the night and left only a note saying they would be gone for a few days, and that left Kodlak who was up at Dragonsreach negotiating some kind of contract with one of the Thanes.

 

“Nobody about?” He frowned, knowing that his pay would be in the secure safe that only Aela and Kodlak had the keys to.

 

“Just us two.” Adrian beckoned offhandedly to himself and Tilma with the whisk, going back to his currently unsuccessful attempt to make the cream light and fluffy.

 

“Figures.” Farkas poured himself a tankard of water from one of the pitchers, downing it in one go.

 

“Did the job go well?”

 

“Almost.”

 

“Almost?”

 

“I picked up this nasty thing.” Farkas held out his arm, wrapped tightly in bandages that had soaked through and through with blood and dirt.

 

Tilma gave it an appraising glance and went back to her work, nothing out of the ordinary for her. Adrian completely stopped, a look somewhere between confusion and mild horror crossing his face.

 

“Do you want some help with that?” Adrian put the bowl aside on the edge of a table, crossing the distance between them. Farkas offered no resistance when Adrian took his arm, removed the pin holding the end of the bandage together and unwrapped the first few inches of it.

 

Farkas knew well enough that if Adrian was confident enough to offer then he must have known enough to do something.

 

He didn’t much like the way he winced at it and sucked air in through his teeth.

 

“You got any salves or potions on hand?” Farkas grumbled as Adrian gingerly touched one of the three slashes.

 

“Something better.” Adrian gripped his hand, threading their fingers together.

 

Before Farkas could even open his mouth to question it Adrian had laid his other hand against his bicep and gently, slowly, stroked down the length of the injury. Golden light poured from between his fingers, Farkas biting his lip to avoid making a contented sigh. The pain was gone instantly, replaced by something airy and light that he thought was similar to the poppy tincture he had once been given for a viciously cracked bone.

 

He hadn’t expected Adrian to be a mage, though it made sense given that he was an adventurer that could barely wield a sword. The adventurers that couldn’t wield a blade, string a bow or toss a spell had a life expectancy measurable in barely minutes. It went up to months for the ones that could, at a generous count.

 

When Farkas looked, opening his eyes without realising he had closed them, he saw the Breton deep in concentration. There was a delicate furrow to his brow, and his lower lip jutted out like he had just been told off by Skjor. There was something there behind the determination that he hadn’t noticed before. He couldn’t quite place it, but found himself staring trying to understand.

 

When Adrian reached the end of the wound he gave it one last brush over, Farkas rather embarrassed at the shiver the almost ran through him.

 

“All done.” He said it with a beaming smile, letting go of his hand completely unaware of the intense look he was receiving.

 

Farkas gave it a cursory check, bending and twisting it a few times to be certain everything had been put back where it was supposed to go.

 

“Thank you.” Farkas coughed when he found the words had come out a little hoarse, his throat terribly dry despite the water.

 

“I'm happy to help.” Adrian was still smiling as he went back to helping Tilma.

 

Farkas retreated to his room to think, leaving them to their cooking. He found himself lying on his bed, holding his arm up into the air and studying the perfectly healed skin. There was no trace of a scar, not even a bruise, but somehow his arm still felt strange. It tingled faintly, the last few strands of magicka running up and down it the same way his fingers had. It felt good, in a way that perhaps he would like again.

 

He finally let sleep take him, the burst of energy the magicka had given him failing now that he was at rest.

 

Farkas hadn’t even thought to ask him what he was doing when he had arrived at the hall, putting it from his mind until he was pleasantly surprised a few hours later.

 

That evening the Companions tried the fancy pastries Adrian and Tilma had made, all agreeing that they went down lovely with a sweet juniper mead.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapters alternate long-short, so this chapters is only 1000 words. Long chapters tend to be 2500-5000, short are usually at around 1000 but a few of them are closer to 2000.


	3. Nobody There

 

 

Skjor did not hold back. By his estimation one of two things would happen. Either the whelp would learn how to parry, or they would find out if the healers at the Temple could reattach a severed limb. It was strongly leaning toward the second option.

 

Adrian swung recklessly, Skjor simply turning so it passed him harmlessly. He rolled his body along the flat of the blade, hooked his free arm around and under Adrians sword arm, dropped his own blade and lifted the whelp by his belt and slammed him right into the ground.

 

That was how Farkas found them, Adrian sprawled out on the floor with Skjor shouting for him to get back on his feet and fight him.

 

It was slightly better than the day before when Adrian had limped back into the hall drenched in blood and sweat, bearing a sizeable slash across his chest that was luckily only a hairs breadth deep. A flare of magic and a decent dollop of salve closed it up with only a little under a half hours complaint. He was considerably less gracious when hurt than Farkas or any Companion in the hall typically was.

 

Their sparing sessions had been regular and enforced, with at least an hours workout for every day that he was in the Hall. It had been a handful of weeks and Adrian was improving faster than most if it was ignored that he was starting from a place of extreme disadvantage. A few months prior he had never even touched a sword, and unfortunately it was as clear as the White River in spring that it was the case.

 

“Good, you're finally here.” Skjor held out his hand for Adrian to take, getting an indignant huff before it was taken. He hauled him upright, Adrian bristling with indignity as he brushed the dust and dirt off himself.

 

“Vilkas had me running up to Dragonsreach to get something for him.” Farkas shrugged heavily, happy that at the very least he had seen the way his brothers eyes had lit up when he was handed a rather frail looking book. It was a copy of a first era text, supposedly an account of a Dragonborn who's name was now lost to history, who amongst many other achievements was said to have started a rebellion against the dragons and was buried alive in their own sanctuary as punishment for the treachery.

 

“He should be spending less time with his head in the old tales and more with a sword in his hand. Next he'll be waving his hands and casting spells like a frail little mage.” He looked down at Adrian who was now glaring at him half heartedly. “Only a little offence intended, mage.”

 

Adrian coiled his fist tight, and playfully flicked a small cloud of ice at him.

 

Skjor chose to ignore it as it passed over him, not once breaking eye contact with a very bemused Farkas even when gently brushing the layer of frost from his shoulder.

 

“Going to tell me why I’m here?” Farkas sighed at it all, and not for the first time that day. “Or are we just standing around talking?”

 

Skjor bit his lip to keep the smile back, standing a little taller and with an air of formality.

 

“His time has come, and it seems you have claim to being his Shield-Brother for this task.”

 

“Understood.” Farkas nodded pensively, turning to Adrian and his raised eyebrow. “Lets see if you impress.”

 

“Anybody care to explain?” Adrian gestured widely and regretted it instantly as his shoulder burned where he had hit the ground.

 

“A scholar approached us this morning. The man was a fool, but if his information was right then we know the location of one of the fragments of Wuuthrad. Our honour as Companions demands we retrieve it, and it falls to you to prove yourself in our name.”

 

“You find it and bring it back, I follow to see if you fight with honour. Simple enough.”

 

“Wuuthrad? Old Nord word I'm guessing?”

 

“Ysgramor's axe, from the Old Land. Killed all the elves, or most of them anyway.” Farkas shrugged again. If the whelp really cared to know he would seek out his brother instead.

 

“So I just find a broken axe and bring it back while Farkas watches?”

 

“Just a fragment, and that’s a fair summary.”

 

“When are we leaving?”

 

“Within the hour. Get to it.”

 

Adrian wasn't sure if he ought to salute and chose not to. Too much time around soldiers back in High Rock had left that weird lingering habit.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

“I get the impression Vilkas doesn’t like me.” Adrian thought aloud, recalling the unimpressed look he had gotten when he'd gone to the less agreeable of the brothers for more information. He didn’t say it aloud, but Vilkas didn’t seem much pleased that it was his time to prove his worth.

 

“Vilkas is slow to warm up to anyone.” Farkas knew exactly why Vilkas was being the way he was, more so than usual, and it was technically his fault. Farkas had deliberately paired himself with the newblood for three different jobs that required more than one person and Vilkas had certainly noticed. Typically those two person jobs were for him and Farkas, or Aela and Skjor.

 

“It's been months at this point, if he's warming up I'm just not feeling it.”

 

“If you show him what you're made of I’m sure he'll take a shine to you.”

 

“Have I done something to earn his displeasure otherwise?” Vilkas had been more than a little short of temper with him on several occasions, enough that even Aela had toned down her usual scathing wit to a manageable level to compensate.

 

“Nothing I can think of. You've been nothing but nice.” Not technically a lie, Adrian hadn’t done anything other than be nice to Farkas.

 

“You seem to have warmed to me well enough.”

 

“I enjoy your company, mostly, and I'm used to being around someone who has their head in a book too often.”

 

“Mostly?” Adrian smiled slyly.

 

“Take the compliment and like it.” Farkas pointed down into the cairn. “This is the place.”

 

Adrian took the lead. He put his weight into the door expecting it to be heavy with rust and age, finding it offered little resistance. For his effort he received a face full of stale air.

 

Something did not sit right, some instinct warning him that there was something implacably wrong. Dustmans Cairn was like any other burial crypt he had raided. There was draugr, this time dead rather than annoyingly not quite dead. There was traps, some of which seemed to have been expended. And the air seemed a little less ancient, not quite fresh but not so old that it felt like his lungs were coated in old vellum and dust.

 

He stepped through an ajar door, unease getting to him. Farkas seemed to be on edge too, then irritated when Adrian kicked the head off a draugr and sent it bouncing down a corridor. He had wanted to be certain it was dead, and gotten a pointed look from the one sponsoring him in his test doing so.

 

“Someone's been here ahead of us.” Farkas finally put into words what was off about the place. “Be on your guard, they could have awoken the draugr deeper in. I don't want to have to haul you back to Jorrvaskr on my back.”

 

“I'm careful.” Adrian turned on his heel, a rather petulant look on his lips for all of a second before a withered hand reached out from an alcove and gripped his wrist. Farkas swung his blade in an upward arc, severing it at the elbow just in time for Adrian to slam his free hand right into the face of the monster and let loose a volley of flames into its eyesocket. It staggered once and crumpled to the floor, as dead as it was supposed to be.

 

Adrian swore several times, backing up against a wall as his heart thundered, startling and then having the sense to check he hadn’t just backed up into another burial. Farkas sighed heavily having lost count how many times it had been, shook his head a few times, then finally let the humour of it get to him.

 

His laugh was deep and rich, Adrian unable to quite keep the frown on his face in response.

 

“This your idea of careful?” He tried to hide the smile and failed. Adrian frustrated him, but he didn’t have it in his heart to actually dislike him even for all of his big words and foolish actions. “Come on, we're getting distracted.”

 

The path ahead was clear of danger, all but a few draugr slain.

 

Adrian was perhaps a little too cautious moving forward, startling too easily at every shadow. That was why it should have been a complete surprise when he managed to activate some ancient trap and seal himself behind a trellis.

 

They entered the room cautiously, some kind of meeting chamber judging from the layout. Adrian found his sword in his hand without wholly remembering drawing it. He put it away, turning to survey the surroundings.

 

Farkas seemed on edge, wearing a look of mild confusion. He must have been stretching, his arm up over his shoulder with his fingers just brushing the leather bindings on his sword. He picked up an old book, thumbing through it without really looking at the words until it crumbled between his fingers. He didn’t consider it a great loss to history.

 

Adrian sheathed his sword, his heart oddly pounding without reason. There was Nobody there. He shrugged the feeling away, something prickling at the back of his mind as he entered the last alcove and the trap shut behind him. His grip on his sword tightened as the sound startled him.

  
“Now looks what you've gotten yourself into.” Farkas pushed at the bars to confirm they were definitely secure, shaking his head at the whelps predicament with just a little bit of that earlier smile on his lips. “I'll find a release, sit tight.”

 

Farkas spun on his heel, a handful of what appeared to be well armed mercenaries surrounding him with their weapons drawn. Farkas was certain they had not been there moments before.

  
“He said you'd be here.” What appeared to be their leader motioned over his shoulder to a spot where Nobody was standing. Adrian looked, saw nothing, and found a warning almost on his lips that had no place being there. A moment later he couldn't even recall looking, he had no reason to. There was Nobody there.  
  
“Which one is he?” The one wielding a knife more suited to skinning a bear spoke up, chewing at her lower lip and bouncing on the spot with pent up energy.

  
“Doesn’t matter, kill 'em both.”  
  
“Kill the big one, then we skin the trapped rat. Make for a good story. And a good rug back at The Rock.”  
  


Farkas huffed dismissively, half laugh, half mocking snort.

  
“Its too bad nobody will be alive to hear it.” Farkas backed into the bars, surrounded, giving Adrian a quick glance to be sure he was safe.  
  
Adrian was already calculating just what he could do, drawing breath for the Words and getting ready to drop his secret with three sounds and a burst of flaming thuum.  
  
Farkas sword dropped to the ground with an echoing ring of metal against stone.  
  
Adrian would have Shouted there and then if one of the rivets in Farkas armour hadn’t burst with such pressure it flew past him with a whistle, shattering an urn behind him. Adrian gawked as the rivets seemed to pop in just the right places for the armour to fall away cleanly, muscle and fur expanding outwards.  
  
The attackers charged with a battlecry, the first felled by a hand, by a paw, as large as their chest.

Another swung in a panic and missed by an arms length, getting a throat full of razor sharpness in return. They dropped with a gurgling sound, clawing uselessly at what was left of their windpipe.

 

Their leader was more confident, but the wolf was simply stronger. He caught their arm and twisted until it snapped, ending them with a single tear that shredded from their belly to their eyeballs into wet ribbons.  
  
The wolf turned, gripping the bars of the cage with enough force to bend the ancient metal inwards. Adrian swallowed when he met those burning eyes, unable to turn away. He let out the thuum he had been holding softly, soundlessly, the world and its rules blurring about him too little to be noticed.  
  
He watched as the beast seemed to fold back into itself, bone and sinew crunching and distorting into a human form.   
  


Farkas' chest was rising and falling as he gulped down air, holding himself up with the bars as if his legs had failed him. His cheeks were red, the flush of exertion colouring down his neck and across his shoulders. He was slick with sweat and blood spatter, a heavy droplet sat in the hollow of his throat was displaced by a deep breath, sliding down his chest leaving a red-pink trail. Adrian tore his eyes away from it as it reached the cut of his hipbones, entranced by the path it had taken.

 

He finally stood up tall again and opened his eyes, something sharp and bright behind them. Adrian had never noticed before how brilliant they were, they shone in the darkness like there was faint moonlight behind them. He had seen that glow before, or something near to it, a thirsty tinge of red and orange that was hard to concentrate on and easy to forget when spotted after the sun had set.

  
“Hope I didn't scare you?” Farkas just grinned, all teeth and challenge. He rested his head between two of the bars, the metal delightfully chill against his boiling skin.

  
It was in that moment that Adrian first felt it.

 

He managed to only nod that he was fine, finding himself unable to swallow the sudden dryness in his mouth. He logically knew he was supposed to be at least alarmed, if not outright afraid. A year prior he would have been frozen in place. That was when he was just a man, not a dragon wearing the shape of one.

 

He had just witnessed a brutal display of strength, of power, and now seeing his shield-brother slick with sweat and blood it struck him just how it was the most strikingly beautiful thing he had ever seen. He was wholly unprepared for that want to hit him.

 

Lust was not an unfamiliar thing to him, the rough seductions of soldiers and fighters guild mercenaries staying at the inns in Jehenna and Evermore had been something of a pass time in his earlier youth. This was sharper, searing, wholly alien to him. It was so close to that surge of desire he felt hearing that whistling roar carrying on the wind, that need to have it, that need to take it, that magnetic pull and delightful high as he tore the soul from a dragon and added it to his own. He wanted Farkas in the same way he wanted that power.

  
He wanted to cross the gap, damn the bars to Oblivion, and taste the blood and salt still on his lips. He wanted to know what it would feel like to mark him and taste him with tongue and teeth. He could feel the Words bubbling to the surface, _Feim-Zii_ would be all he needed. He could step through those bars and give Farkas a proper reason to be wearing that infuriatingly attractive smirk.

  
Sensibility almost came back to him, turning away with a muttered excuse about finding the switch or mechanism that could release the trap. The thoughts were too bold, too confident. Not quite his own. Paathurnax had spoken on such things, warned him to hold strong against the hunger, that desire to have, to conquer, to feel everything without restraint.

 

He had tried not to look, but it had only taken a moments weakness for it be burned into his mind in a not unpleasant way. Farkas was stood a few paces farther away with his back to him, having gathered the scattered parts and had started reassembling his armour with a handful of temporary rivets designed for just such a purpose. They twisted and locked into place, clearly the delicate work of a master armoursmith.

 

Farkas must have felt eyes on him, Adrian more than admiring the curve of his back, the strength of his thighs and certain other assets that were the well toned product of a warriors lifestyle. He turned back, leaning slightly to the side with a hand on his hip. A still very undressed hip. That Adrian was now looking at. Or at least in the vicinity of. For the second time he tore himself away.   
  
To the casual observer the seams in the armour were almost unnoticeable, only now that Adrian had seen them in action he could recognise the marks. That meant someone had designed their armour for just that purpose. He realised that a good many of the Companions had those rivets on their armour. That meant there was more werewolves in the guild.   
  
The trellis bars lifted with a rusty clatter of old machinery, Farkas padding back into the room fully dressed.  
  


“You alright?” He seemed oddly cautious, as if he thought that Adrian considered him a danger.

  
“You're all werewolves.” Adrian spoke plainly, the realisation sitting in him oddly calm.  
  
“That we are.”  
  
“Are you going to make me a werewolf?”  
  
“No. That's an honour only the Circle get. Prove your honour and then maybe.” The look Farkas gave him, once up and down, strongly suggested he would not be receiving Hircine's blessing any time soon.  
  
“I think I’ll pass on the offer, if its all the same.”

 

“We can't, and won't, force the gift on anyone. Wouldn't be right.” Farkas spoke like he was talking about something petty and minor, not the blood of a Daedric Prince. “You know you can't tell anyone about this, right?”

 

“I guessed as much.”

 

“Swear it to me.” Farkas extended his hand.

 

“I swear on my honour as a Companion.” Adrian took it.

 

“Good. Now lets get moving. There can't be anything worse than these guys down here.”

 

Farkas regretted those words not more than a handful of minutes later when they found themselves in a room filled to the brim with spiders. Adrian had stumbled through a web, flailed wildly to get it off of his face, realised quickly exactly how much danger he was in, and the moment he thought it safe to both breath and move again what they had thought was the walls started crawling toward them.

 

Farkas had never been confronted with so many legs and eyes all in one place, and he could still feel them watching him even after Adrian had responded to the whole situation by unleashing what could generously be called an apocalyptic amount of fire into a very narrow space.

 

Even once they were clear, and had checked they still had their eyebrows, he could still feel them, too many of them, too close. Adrian had just shuddered to himself once they were free, took a deep breath and buried it where the rest of the traumatic things went. It was in very good company, sat somewhere between all of Helgen and the horrors he had seen on his first visit to the Volkihar Court with Serana. Farkas did not have the luxury of such an unhealthy coping mechanism, and would be waking up from vivid, horrific dreams best described as being from the deepest places in Oblivion where the realms of Vaermina and Mephala bled into one another.

 

Deciding that the test was less important than actually surviving Farkas took the lead and pushed open the double doors to what was likely the main burial chamber, braced and ready for something to happen. Ahead of them was a set of stairs up to a single sarcophagus, an alter, and a wall of ancient writings. He told Adrian to be careful, for what he was certain was at least the forth time that day, and found his warning had fallen on deaf ears.

 

Adrian ignored everything but the wall. He had heard the Word calling before they had even entered the room, from faint distant whispers to a deafening chant that had blotted out all other noise and demanded he answer it. Without even meaning to he had gravitated toward it, one foot ahead of the other, lost in the need to know what it said. He let his fingers trace the edge of the markings until he could feel them in his bones, in the way a razor sharp talon as long as his body would carve them into stone. The Word curled around inside him, the concept of it tasting like a flagon of molten lead and the harshness of midday summer sun on bared skin.

 

“We're here for this, stay focussed.” Farkas motioned toward the fragment of Wuuthrad, neatly laid out on a pedestal. He continued to motion toward it until Adrian took the hint, regaining control of his senses. It was his task to recover it, his duty to care for it, and his duty to return it to the Companions.

 

“Sorry, the markings caught my attention. They're very early first era, and I’ve always had a love of the writing of that period.” He feigned professional curiosity, hoping that Farkas would not pry into his supposed archaeological fascination. He had no idea if they were first era (they were not, they were late Merethic) and could not back up his claims if asked to. Farkas just rolled his eyes with mild disapproval and a near silent muttering that could be summed up as 'mages'.

 

The moment his fingers touched the fragment he felt the snap of magicka, a ripple through the air that gave him just enough time to draw his sword as the lid of the sarcophagus blew off its hinges and the ancient lich rose up with a shriek.

 

The air chilled until it needled at his exposed arms, the tips of his fingers already numbed and pained. Frost formed on their armour, leather stiffening and steel freezing. Adrian's breath come out in little clouds where Farkas' came out as thick plumes, the werewolf burning much hotter inside from the blood.

 

It floated for a moment, jerking and twitching, its joints snapping back into position as old muscle and sinew stretched like old vellum. It looked out from under its layers of burial shrouds at the two tomb robbers, their presence an affront to its rest.

 

There was a spark of recognition when it looked at Adrian, a moments double take and a tensing as if personally offended by his presence, unbelieving that he was actually there.

 

“Miraak?” It studied him for a moment, leaning forward as if scrutinising him. “Niid, folaas. Dovahkiin, hokoron. Hi gahrot qalos ko dii hofkah.” It turned empty eye sockets to Farkas, a sneer turning its paper thin lips. “Voth an grohiik sunvaar, vokul. Tiid wah dir, fah Alduin.”

 

It stretched out it hands, frost dancing between them in a sweeping, swirling arc.

 

Adrian raised his hand and readied a warding spell.

 

Farkas did not wait for the flurry of magicka to come his way and instead closed the distance at a run. With a single bounding leap he tackled the priest out of the air and came crashing down to the floor with a snap of old bones, pinning it under his significant bulk. He tried very hard to invert its face using only his fists, succeeding in destroying what was left of its nose and smashing out several of its teeth.

 

“ **Fus**.” It inhaled with malicious intent, Adrian having just enough time to yell 'brace' before “ **Ro Dah** ” blasted Farkas across the room. Farkas had at the last moment managed to raise his arms into a guard, taking at least some of the brunt out of the attack. He still hit the wall with some considerable force.

 

Adrian had wasted no time and put all of his weight behind his sword, lopping off the lichs head before it could rise into the air again. He kicked it a distance away, the thing shrieking at him as it skittered down the steps bouncing off every other one.

 

He knew well enough that these creatures could still do harm even in pieces, going after the shouting head before it could reassemble itself. On more than one occasion he had found a draugr hand had made its way into his travel pack and was now loose in a town like a strangulation obsessed spider. He had to personally apologise to the Jarl of Falkreath for the last incident.

 

Adrian didn’t understand all of what the head was saying, but from the odd word he did recognise it seemed the dragonpriest was making awful insinuations about what his mother would put in her mouth in exchange for gold.

 

He picked it up by the scalp, to avoid the hissing and snapping of teeth, opened the nearest urn and dropped it in. The swearing was muffled as he closed the lid before completely stopping, replaced by an indignant silence.

 

“Nicely done.” Farkas had gotten to his feet, his body stiff and protesting but not immediately much worse for wear. After a hot bath and a long sleep he was going to have bruises shaped like dragon wings down the length of his back.

 

“Are you hurt?”

 

“I've had worse.” Farkas shrugged.

 

“Then can you help me with this?” Adrian was already hauling the headless body back to the sarcophagus, the creature surprisingly weighty given how lightly it could fly. The arms were vaguely flailing, trying very hard to not let Adrian drag it across the room.

 

With Farkas help they dumped the body back into its resting place, doused it in a generous amount of alcohol and with a snap of his fingers the whole thing was alight. A nearby urn started screaming something positively vile in Dovah, until ancient vocal cords were hoarse with strain and it just became vague wheezing about how the Dragonborn should choke to death on a certain delicate part of werewolf anatomy.

 

If Adrian had still been present he probably would have agreed to at least the second part, at least now having seen it. By that point the Companions had long left with their prize, and the priest was just shouting into an empty tomb.

 

Much later Adrian wondered idly to himself just why the image of a man wearing a bone white mask with spiral shaped eyeholes kept coming to him unbidden. He was sure he had not seen that man with the werewolf hunters, he was certain there had been Nobody in the room with them. He chose to dwell on it later and instead forgot completely a little too easily, enjoying the evening of good food as the Companions sung their praises returning the fragment of Wuuthrad.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What the Dragon Priest said:
> 
> My interpretation:  
> Miraak? No, I was mistaken. Dragonborn, the adversary. How dare you trespass in my halls. With a werewolf too, disgusting. Now you die, for my master Alduin”  
> Literal:  
> Miraak? No, wrong. dragonborn, enemy. You steal presence in my halls. With a wolf beast, evil. Time to die, for master alduin.”


	4. A Storm Yet to Take Shape

 

 

Adrian was still bruised from his last training session with Skjor and more than happy to grumble about it, amongst many other things. In recent weeks his scent had been thick with the sharp biting edge of medicinal salves smothering the always present undertone of the ash and wood smoke. It had made him easy to track, Farkas happy for that at least when he was bored and desired company.

 

At the barest speed he was improving, now almost quick enough that he could get under Skjors guard and do some actual damage. Out in the field though he still made mistakes under pressure, Farkas catching him covering them up with magic. There had been more than a handful of bandits who had though they were about to earn an easy notch in their sword only to have their faces fried off by a lightning bolt. Farkas was always quietly judgemental about it, but gave him no grief for it. Skjor was never so merciful.

 

His training had him eating almost as much meat as the Circle, the intention to put weight behind his swing and build up his strength. Skjor had more than once jokingly suggested that his meals were now so much bigger than him that one day he might try to eat something and find it consuming him back. If Esbern had not made him swear to secrecy he might have told them all there and then that he had experienced a similar horror, scaled and winged, fighting to not have its soul devoured.

 

With each new soul the fear in him faded just a little more, and still he had not found it in himself to say anything to Farkas.

 

There had been moments where some of the souls had not quite settled in him, stray urges fighting to be noticed as they faded into him. For days after he could feel their memories unfolding, distant and not quite made for a human mind to comprehend. More than once the urge to take flight had come to him from nowhere, and on one odd occasion he had been certain that he could carry a cow in his talons and drop it from the air onto the roof of someone particularly irritating.

 

Since the incident at Dustmans Cairn he had convinced himself that it had simply been Farkas' power he had craved, a desire from one of the dragons interpreting itself with only the human range of emotions to do so. Farkas was everything he needed to be, wanted to be, to do what he needed to do as Dragonborn. He was strong, kind, just and honourable.

 

Adrian was certain in his assessment up until a single incident. He couldn't even recall what he had said, but it had drawn a rich, barking laugh from Farkas. For that brief moment he seemed so light and happy, his smile so strikingly handsome. That was when he had realised that it was not simply a stray compulsion he had felt.

 

Farkas was idly listening to him ramble, enjoying how easily Adrian shared his travels and discoveries. If he could hold a tune even in the slightest he might have made a better bard. There had been whistling of 'The Dragonborn Comes' as offkey as it could possibly be, and somehow it had pierced like a blade through every single werewolf in the hall. He was more than certain the day Adrian managed to make a compelling tune was the day the world would end.

 

That was also how Adrian had discovered that the Thuum touched every aspect of his voice, albeit subtly.

 

Farkas occasionally put in a word between Adrians ramblings just so they knew that he was actually listening and appreciating the company.

 

He stopped mid pace, something catching his attention right on the edge of his senses. He raised his hand in a signal to stop, holding his breath and listening. Adrian was silent instantly, listening and hearing little but the wind coming down from the mountains.

 

“What's wrong?” He was already reaching for his hip, ready to draw his sword if there was danger.

 

Farkas tilted his head, his look darkening and his brow creasing.

 

“Something.” He was being deliberately evasive by habit. It was easier to lie consistently than it was to remember exactly who did and did not know. He could smell death and fire in the air in a way no mortal man could easily explain away.

 

There was a whistle of air and three 'thunks' of arrows striking ground. It was clearly a volley of warning shots.

 

“Identify yourselves!” The accent was Nibenean Imperial, the voice thrown by someone good at misdirection.

 

Farkas motioned for Adrian to take his hand off his sword, which he did albeit reluctantly. With his focus elsewhere he did miss entirely how Adrian drew in a breath and held it, readying for a fight in a wholly different way.

 

“We represent the Companions of Jorrvaskr.” Farkas shouted up to them, looking right in their direction, not fooled in the slightest by their attempt at concealing themselves.

 

Adrian coughed once to hide the Word he had chosen, the world lighting up with the shimmering colours of life energies. They were hiding just over a ridge, a handful of them illuminated in blue and red through the dirt and rock.

 

“Approach slowly and make no sudden movements.” One of the Imperial soldiers looked up out of their hiding place, the rest nocking another volley of arrows should the exchange turn sour.

 

As they approached the smell grew stronger until even Adrian caught it.

 

When the reached they top of the ridge they saw the cause. The green plains were trampled to mud, strewn with hundreds of bodies. A camp had been set up, barely forty soldiers tending to almost twice that many gravely injured. They were all that remained of the 17th Legion, victorious, but at the cost of almost nine out of every ten soldiers.

 

Farkas took the brunt of it, the meat repulsive to the human and appetising to the wolf. The change bristled under the surface, the ghost of the feeling of flesh and bone crunching between his teeth kept at bay with the promise of something later.

 

Adrian looked on, knowing from a dispassionate standpoint that this was exactly what the civil war looked like and being wholly unprepared to see it for himself. He had heard the numbers, the death toll in the thousands spoken of in the same way the coming weather would be. To be confronted with it was something else. The dragons and their evil was something he could put into context, and do something about. This was just beyond his power.

 

“Can you prove to me that you are Companions?” The Legionnaire asked, a hint of well practiced threat to his voice. Farkas wordlessly handed him a strip of red cloth, delicately embroidered with the symbol of Wuuthrad. The soldier turned it over, scrutinising it, finally deciding it was not worth the effort. He had no way on knowing if it was genuine, but was simply too far tired to want to pursue it even if it wasn't. “I suggest you tread lightly on your path. Today has been a bad day for everyone who passed through this place.”

 

“Your concern is welcome, and unneeded. We can look after our own.” Farkas nudged Adrian once in his shoulder, not getting his attention. The second time seemed to snap him out of his thoughts.

 

“What?” Something had been brewing in his mind, a far off idea like a storm yet to take shape, now put away for a later time.

 

“We have a job. Come on.” Farkas knew enough to be concerned. “Nothing we can do here.”

 

He had almost offered his services as a healer. His magicka reserves were deep enough to help at least a few of them, even if was just damning them to die at a slightly later battle. Farkas would definitely not allow it, the Companions were forbidden to interfere in favour of either side.

 

His chances of getting into the College of Winterhold would also shrink from almost nothing to actually nothing; they had been aggressively neutral thus far and would take any reason to deny him a place for a second time. There was always the Synod or the College of Whispers, neither particularly attractive choices, and the direly desperate option of House Telvanni.

 

Adrian stole one last look over the death and devastation. Alduin was his first priority, but he promised there and then that he would come back to this problem.

 

They trudged onwards, pointedly ignoring the pained groans that carried on the wind. And the smell. It clung to his hair and clothes, too strong, too close, too familiar. He would much later hand everything to Tilma with a decently large pouch of Septims, an apology, and have her deal with it all.

 

 

 


	5. The Dwemer

 

 

The final chamber set off every warning instinct Adrian had accumulated from delving Dwemer ruins. It was wide open, there was scorch marks on the floor, and there was a suspiciously brassy statue right in the center of the room.

 

Farkas nudged Adrian with his elbow, nodding toward their objective. A damaged travel pack had been discarded right at the statues feet, left by an adventurer lacking in sense, caution, but not coin enough to hire the Companions to retrieve his lost equipment.

 

Adrian raised his hand, orange cascading lights forming between his outstretched fingers. He reached, flailing and pulling as if trying to grab something just a hairs breadth away from his fingertips. The backpack moved slightly, nudging closer to them by a few inches, refusing to move anymore from whatever was weighing it down. He huffed when it became apparent they were not getting it quite so easily.

 

“Mages.” Farkas snorted, not quite serious in his irritation.

 

“You know what'll happen.” Adrian folded his arms, looking pointedly at the trap.

 

“We can handle it.” Farkas drew his sword, the barest hint of a confident smile on his lips.

 

“After you.” Adrian motioned theatrically, his magic shifting from wispy orange to a cold, misty blue.

 

Farkas took a step forward confidently before swinging his whole body to the side to dodge the trap he had not noticed. Adrian managed to flicker between an ice spell and a ward, catching three of the darts with a barrier, jumping to Farkas' defence and raising another with his other hand and holding it up to cover the second wave from the other direction.

 

Farkas checked his step and found no pressure plate or mechanism. The Dwemer centurion had tilted slightly, aware of their presence but made no obvious sign that it had awoken, and somehow it had remotely activated the traps.

 

Adrian coiled his hand into a fist and threw as much magicka as he could muster into the spell. The cloud of ice slowed the raising temperature of the machines boiler, buying Farkas the time he needed. The centurion raised its arm, paused as if uncertain, returning to an idle position for a moment before retrying.

 

Farkas had fallen forward into a less than human run, hunched as the change surged through him. By the time he leapt at the mechanical monster he had shed all of his armour in favour of fur.

 

His weight was more than enough to knock it over onto its back, claws finding a familiar weak spot between armoured plates and tearing through with a spray of bolt caps until its chest was open, exposing its mechanics to the air. Adrian had drawn another spell, Farkas reeling back long enough for the spray of ice to cool its core to a stop before diving right back in search of its heart.

 

He found it easily, tearing it free with a triumphant howl and throwing it as hard as he could.

 

The gem hit the wall, cracking down the length of it. It landed on the ground too heavily without even slightly bouncing, trembled once after a moment and then shattered in a spray of shards and purple lightning, a distant sound of tonal resonances uncoiling following a long second later.

 

The machine twitched twice, gears catching and scraping as if they didn’t quite align anymore.

 

Adrian was about to say something when it surged once more, spraying a gout of oil in all directions before slumping with finality.

 

He sputtered, trying to get it out of his mouth. He couldn’t quite describe the taste, only that it was obvious that it was thousands of years past it working life and that he suspected, and hoped that he was deeply wrong, that meat was used in its creation.

 

Farkas returned to his human form, reassembled his armour and donned it in an uncomfortable silence. It had been in his fur, and even now he could still feel it. Adrian had been too self absorbed to even remember Farkas was there, still swilling his mouth out with one of everything he had packed hoping one of them could at least dim the taste.

 

He took a step, feeling the way his armour clung to his skin by thick sticky strands. He tried very hard not to let his mind compare the sensation to walking through frostbite webs.

 

He had decided then and there that if he ever found just where the Dwemer had hidden themselves he was going to show each and every one of the bastards the sharp end of his sword.

 

The room rippled blue at the edges, Adrian flickering slightly as if he had only been half there for a moment. It was magic clearly, but nothing Farkas had ever seen him casting before.

 

It was a calculated risk, but ' **Feim** ' could be spoken very faintly without drawing too much attention. To his horror not only had he risked his secret, but he had risked it for almost nothing as the oil had followed him across. At the very least it had burnt out of his mouth from the force of the Thuum. When he used the shout when wet the water simply fell off and through him. The oil evidently didn’t want to do that.

 

Farkas slung the recovered backpack over his own. There was certainly something abnormally heavy in it, and it tingled faintly in a way that meant it was drawing and storing a phenomenal amount of magicka. They had been paid to recover it, not to look, so Farkas simply ignored it.

 

Magical things had a way of turning bad on him sooner or later. Magic was fickle, enchantments could waver, but steel had a certainty to it he much preferred.

 

“You done?” He had an eyebrow raised at Adrian's asttempt to wipe it away, but underneath it all he was suffering just as much from the oil. He just had the sense not to fret and complain over it.

 

Adrian just shuddered, the look he got all the answer he would get.

 

At the very least they wouldn't have to backtrack. Farkas pushed the lever, raising the platform up through the ruin and out into the air with a clicking whir of old gears. Fresh air was delightful after the balmy, old air of the ruin.

 

From the mountain side they had emerged from they could see for miles to the north, the east obscured by the heat haze of the sulphurous pools of Wittestadr in Eastmarch where rested the Atronach Stone, and the west by the rising cliffs that marked the borders of Whiterun hold.

 

Farkas wasted no time setting off, determination in his stride. He had spotted a river barely a mile out and was determined to be clean. Adrian somehow managed to keep up, wondering just how it was possible for Farkas to keep up such a brisk, unceasing pace in heavy armour.

 

There was a bend in the river that Farkas deemed safe a short way along, secluded enough to be undisturbed and with only a single approach. Before Adrian could voice his complaint about being made to sprint a mile and a half, and before he could question it, Farkas simply stripped himself of everything and had gone wading in. He had of course tied a dagger to his forearm with a strip of leather, a Companion disarmed was soon to be a dead Companion.

 

It was all Adrian could do not to burn as hot as Magnus at the sight. He was already light headed, unable to recall if he had eaten that morning, the last thing he needed was seeing more of Farkas naked.

 

His desire had cooled enough to be like the background thrum of magicka around the College, ever present but barely a concern, but now it was so insistent he was honestly surprised Farkas couldn’t smell the lust wafting off of him.

 

“Join me, waters great.” Farkas made a wide gesture before cupping his hands into the water and splashing it over his face and chest.

 

“This isn’t a safe place.” Adrian was very deliberately only looking at his face. If he looked anywhere else he would be reminded all too vividly the events of Dustmans Cairn.

 

“There’s nothing on the wind, trust me. A few deer up the hill, nothing else for miles around.”

 

“You sure?”

 

“Can't you cast a warning spell, or something?” Farkas made a motion, gripping and releasing as if casting a spell with all the skill of a novitiate first stumbling into a chironasium.

 

“I'm not that good. I can close wounds, throw fire, make cold and move things by pointing at them. Not much else.”

 

“Some use you are. I thought mages could turn wood into gold.”

 

“The College told me less than nicely to come back when I could cast more spells than I had fingers. Unless I stick my hand in a bears mouth that’s not going to be for quite a long time.”

 

“I could bite a few off if you'd like?” Farkas gave a wolfish grin.

 

“I appreciate the thought, and appreciate having all of my fingers a lot more.”

 

“Joining me?”

 

Adrian ran a finger across his armour, sticky black-purple strands coming away.

 

“Why not?” He relented.

 

He dumped his armour in a pile next to Farkas' without a second glance and stepped into the water. What Farkas had failed to mention was that it was freezing cold, his response to yelp and jump back, losing his footing against the slippery gravel and planting face first into the river.

 

Adrian was the Dragonborn, hero of legend, and was now naked, shivering and undignified in a river filled entirely by icy meltwater from the Throat of the World.

 

Farkas was smirking at him as he stood, a silent laugh rocking his chest.

 

Adrian tried to scowl at the indignity of it all, his senses feeling a little dull at the edges, and instead couldn’t help but smile at the unguarded expression Farkas was wearing. There was a moment where they caught each others gaze, something suddenly tense and hard for Farkas to put into words no matter how hard he wanted to, and hard for Adrian to want to put into words even if he could.

 

It was Farkas that looked away first, his eyes dropping to Adrian's side as the wind changed direction and something familiar caught his attention.

 

“You're bleeding.”

 

Farkas closed the gap, pressing his hand to Adrian's side for just a moment. When he pulled it back there was a significant amount of blood.

 

He hadn’t even felt it.

 

“I've got this.” Adrian twisted his wrist around, a weave of gold lighted strands forming sluggishly.

 

“I wouldn’t.” Farkas pressed him thumb against the area, pain blossoming sharply. “There’s something in the wound.”

 

The spell failed, a look of completely unguarded horror taking his features. He tried it again and found his magicka reserves completely beyond his ability to draw. His breath hitched in his throat, Farkas responding in an instant and bringing him back down to Nirn before he could let panic consume him.

 

“Look at me.” He placed a hand on each shoulder. “Breath. We can fix this.”

 

He unwrapped the strip from his arm, holding the dagger awkwardly between his knees for a moment as he pressed the strip to Adrian's mouth.

 

“I suggest you bite down on this.” Farkas waited, Adrian opening his mouth with an unplaceable look. “Take a deep breath and exhale when I pull it out.”

 

Adrian nodded. Both of those instruction he had been given before by men almost as attractive as Farkas, in much better, much more pleasing circumstances.

 

Farkas gently put his hand against his cheek, threading his fingers through his dark hair in what he hoped was a reassuring way.

 

He managed to get his fingers around the end of the dart, gave him one last look to confirm he was doing it and pulled.

 

It tore free less than cleanly, Adrian biting down hard. It muffled the yell of pain, but did nothing for the chorus of Shouts that literally turned the air blue. When Adrian finally opened his mouth it was to spit out the ashes of what had been the strap. The Words had been soundless, contained, Farkas just shrugging it off as another thing he was unaware mages could do.

 

Adrian's breathing was heavy, teeth bared as if in a snarl, and there was a rage and fire behind his eyes Farkas had never seen before. After a shuddering inhale and a clenching of his jaw he let it pass, the anger vanishing.

 

Farkas held up the dart, strangely barbed and most definitely Dwemer. It glistened like crystal or glass near the tip, a drop of some thin green liquid still trapped inside. Farkas touched it to his finger gently, numbness spreading up to his elbow before the searing heat of the Blood burnt away the poison.

 

It was lucky Farkas hadn't gone to fetch a potion from his pack when Adrian tilted forward precariously and fell, caught and held securely.

 

“I've got you. You've lost quite a bit of blood.” He was still losing blood, but Farkas thought better of saying that.

 

His head was resting against his shoulder, breath laboured.

 

Adrian tried to summon up a healing spell, the strands evaporating before he could even get a grip on it.

 

He was gently let down on the gravely shore, Farkas fishing in his travel pack for any potions. He found one of each of the major restoratives, now faced with a new issue. He was certain Vilkas told him that there was a proper order to administer them if the one taking them had suffered blood loss. He took a guess that it was green, red, blue, that sounded somewhat right, but if he was right the blue was a magicka restorative and came last because there was no mages in the Companions. Would Adrian need magicka before?

 

Rather than letting indecision grip him he figured nothing too bad could happen if he just had Adrian drink a bit from each one, rotating until they were empty.

 

Adrian grabbed the magicka one before Farkas could even open his mouth to suggest otherwise, and downed it all in a single gulp. He tried to flare up his magicka unsuccessfully, huffed to himself with irritation, and then took the red.

 

“Are you okay?”

 

“Could be better. You don't have to worry about me slowing you down.”

 

“I'm not worried about that. I'm worried because you're my shield-brother.” Farkas decided that a little more honesty could do no harm. “Because you're important to me.”

 

Adrian choked on the potion, sputtering so hard it almost came out of his nose. It burned from his throat to the top of his skull, then didn’t because of healing effect, then burned again in a loop of pain and relief.

 

“I'm glad to hear that.” He cursed himself to the deepest pits of the Quagmire for letting his voice crack, and giving such a weak response.

 

“Are you sure you're fine now?”

 

“I will be. Just give me some time to rest.”

 

Adrian finally trudged out of the water, still naked, and sat with his legs pulled close and his forehead pressed against the top of his knees. Farkas joined him, laying on his back and simply enjoyed the sunlight on his bare skin.

 

He had dozed lightly, stirring when he felt Adrian lie back himself with less laboured breathing than before, and again up when the cold had driven him to curl into the only source of warmth.

 

The touch was only supposed to be a quick check of his throat, finding a pulse strong and steady, Adrian surprising him when he muttered something unintelligible and moved into the touch affectionately.

 

Farkas froze, uncertain, slowly pulling back. He removed himself carefully, Adrian curling up small from the sudden loss of heat. He took pity, draping a cloak from his pack over him and leaving him to his rest.

 

He sat watching the sky and the shapes of the clouds. He had once been told in the old days of Skyrim that seers and priests of the old gods could divine the paths of the future through the patterns of clouds. The Bretons supposedly did something similar with the leftover leaves from drinking tea, though he had to wonder just why omens and portents would be found in a leafy drink.

 

He looked to Adrian, then the clouds, then Adrian again. He frowned to himself, indecision something he was deeply unfamiliar with.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	6. Perfume

 

 

 

  
Farkas was first out of the hall and into the training yard, a little too much bounce in his step.

 

Vilkas paced behind him, clearly aware his brother was up to something but unable to quite work out just what it was. That alone was enough to unnerve him, Farkas was both reliable and predictable to a fault. When his patterns changed that always called disaster upon them.

 

Adrian was distracted by his own tasks, experimentally swinging that awful new sword of his around to a get a good feel for it. It cut through the air perfectly with a slight tinny 'whir' sound, a little too perfectly for how unbalanced the design seemed to be. It forewent a proper crossguard for an impractical halo, the blade too thick to be a longsword and too long for a shortsword. And then there was the light, it shone in a way that coiled inside his skull painfully and felt like it was judging him, the beast growling something unintelligible about it.

 

“Oops.” Farkas said it a little too loudly, having dropped something small, pale and delicate that fluttered to the floor.

 

Adrian swooped in and caught it before it hit the ground, putting it back in Farkas hand with one swift arc.

 

There was a moment where they were both almost palm to palm, near touching, before Adrian pulled back as if cut, and Farkas recoiled in response clearly hurt at the rejection.

 

Adrian put all of his attention into strapping his arm into the shield straps, clearly trying to keep his expression neutral and instead staring at the buckles with such intensity that they might burst into magicka fuelled flame at any moment.

 

Farkas stalked away, his brow creased and shoulders squared, actually dropping what it was he had 'accidentally' dropped a moment before.

 

With a subtle swooping motion Vilkas grabbed it to inspect. He instantly regretted it, the thing soaking wet and slick to the touch. He made the mistake of bringing it up to his nose, a force of ambergris, alcohol and crushed flowers assaulting everything from his eyeballs back. It wasn’t just perfume, it was expensive perfume. He felt the urge to gag, holding down the reflex as best he could with an expression like a puppy licking a lemon.

 

On closer inspection it appeared to be a silken handkerchief, embroidered with 'Farkas' by someone who had clearly never done any form of delicate needlework. Vilkas turned it over a few times, knowing exactly what his brother was trying to do and cursing the pair of them for their stupidity.

 

It was not a completely unexpected development, just one he would rather have avoided.

 

Farkas had somehow decided that the proper way to get Adrian's attention was to court and woo him like a Breton noble. A dropped perfumed handkerchief, a sly touch, a fanciful invitation, it was all so perfectly highborn Breton that it made Vilkas want to be sick. Adrian was too much a fool to realise what Farkas was attempting, and Farkas had no idea just what he was doing.

 

Vilkas tucked it into his belt, the smell now stuck in his nose and would remain there for the remaining few days of the week. He checked his shield straps quickly, eager and prepared to beat Adrian so hard he would be seeing flashes of the whalebone bridge.

 

Adrian was only expecting a light sparing session to teach him the basics of shield use, and instead ended up with strap burn bruises up the length of his arm and the distinct sense that he had done something to earn himself Vilkas' ire.

 

Vilkas remained in a foul mood for some time. He had even tried to go to Aela for sympathy and instead gotten laughed at, souring his mood even farther. Adrian was going to be getting assigned one of the more unsavoury jobs when the courier dropped off their next batch of work from the more distant Holds.

 

It turned out to be troll hunting in what could be generously described as 'the frozen arse end of nowhere' part of Skyrim. Adrian indeed hated it. It made Vilkas feel ever so slightly better, at least when he didn't breath in through his nose.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since this is one of the short chapters i'll be finishing up the editing of the next one fairly soon.


	7. Gold

 

 

 

Skjor was not pleased in the slightest. The whelp was supposed to be up and ready within one hour of dawn, which had passed him by some significant amount of time ago.

 

As sour as his mood was The Circle were each and all in some way similarly out of sorts. Kodlak had finally stopped biting his tongue over Aela's insubordination, and in return she had made it clear she thought him a coward and a traitor. The fight had been behind closed doors, but was loud enough that Vilkas had to check that the Circles secret had not been revealed in the heat of the moment. Vilkas had given both of them a taste of his ire, scattering the pair to tend to their own affairs as far from each other as possible before simply pretending it had never happened.

 

A storm had blown in the night before from the north east, across the Morrowind border. It was carrying with it ash and dust that made the air taste like old paper, charged with some strange energy. Winterhold had felt it first, shattering delicate scrying crystals and upsetting experiments. Windhelm had gotten it next, the Grey Quarter dreaming of a monster in a golden mask that they all feared was the an ill omen pointing to the return of the Sharmat once slain by Moon and Star reborn. Whiterun at the furthest periphery of it seemed only to be made unsettled, like the feeling of watching eyes from a dark place, and the storm had appeared reluctant to travel any farther.

 

To Skjor It made the hairs on the back of his arms prickle like the onset of a thunder, and worse it made the hair, _the fur_ , inside him raise as if threatened. The whole thing felt like an bad sign from the gods.

 

His temper finally reached its peak and with a solid kick he jolted the whole of Adrian's bed against the wall. Adrian startled awake, somehow managing to fling himself upright drawing a ward and a flame spell in either hand before his feet had even hit the ground. Skjor was less than impressed that he had not gone for his sword. He was still a soft bellied mage even after months of training.

 

“You've got twenty minutes. Be in the yard or find someone else to train you.” Skjor almost snarled the words, ignoring the way he could hear the Breton's thundering heartbeat and taste the fear in the air around him. The beast was balancing on a knifes edge. If he had drank it in for even a moment it would consume him, and he knew full well that once he had sampled it that he would turn.

 

The Breton blinked rapidly, the images already gone and forgotten as if Nobody had ever been there. But he had seen it. It had been reaching up from the darkness for him, from on ocean of ink and spires that pierced a sickly green sky, a dragon unlike any other he had fought. One that desired nothing else but to consume him so that it might be free of its prison. Its jaws had been closing in on him, held back as if waiting for him to do something important, and it was patient.

 

After a moment of deep breaths the images faded, too fast, too easily, Adrian assuming that it had just been Skjor startling him that had set his heart racing.

 

He dressed quickly, about to head upstairs before his time ran out when Farkas leaned around the corner from his personal quarters and whistled sharply to get his attention.

 

“Whelp, got something you're going to need.” Farkas beckoned for him to follow.

 

Adrian figured he had a moment to spare, and even if he didn’t he would always find time for Farkas, following him into his room.

 

Farkas was digging about inside a heavy trunk when he entered, Adrian taking a moment to glance around. The room was barely decorated, the only items that seemed to not have dust accumulated on them was the bottles of mead, his spare blades, some strewn armour pieces, and oddly enough a well worn lute.

 

He pondered for a moment if Farkas had any talent for music until there was a noise of triumph from as he lifted up and presented a very new looking gambeson and a shirt of chainmail. His eyes were bright, strangely eager to see him accept it. Typically he was only like that for his brother, and his brother the same in return.

 

The craftsmanship was distinctly Breton, though it was clearly sized to fit Farkas' wider shoulders. It was likely worth more gold than Adrian had ever seen. Adrian touched it, a familiar tingle jumping from its surface like static. It wasn’t just expensive, it was enchanted.

 

“Skjor said he was wanting you to do some heavy armour training. I had this old thing spare, never much liked it, thought you could use it.” It likely wasn't old, it was as close to pristine as it possibly could be, the scent of leather soap still lingering on it. Farkas had been more than careful in its care.

 

“I don't know if I can accept that.” Adrian gently pushed it back, hisd resolve wavering quickly when he saw the hurt bright in Farkas eyes.

 

“Either you take it or I pawn it at Belethors. Better it see use.” Farkas thought to say more, changed his mind, then undid that reminding himself he wasn’t a blushing Breton maiden yet to be deflowered. “I want you to be safe, you matter to me.”

 

Adrian gawked wordlessly, his manners bringing his voice back to him to say his proper thanks.

 

“Thank you, this means a lot to me.” He had almost said 'you mean a lot to me too' and thought better of it.

 

“You got anything heavier than that tunic on your back?” Farkas nodded to the thin tunic he was wearing.

 

“Not really.” Adrian ran a bit of the material between his fingers. It was thin linen, getting dangerously close to being threadbare from use. He had been meaning to buy something better, but having to maintain two sets of clothing and armour, Adrian and Dragonborn separately, was proving difficult and expensive.

 

“You'll need something with a bit more padding, mail chafes something wicked even with a gambeson. You'll be raw and bloody before an hours done in just that thing.” Farkas was mildly frowning before an idea struck him.

 

He dropped the armour onto the bar top, and with one swift motion lifted his own heavy tunic up over his head, balled it up and threw it toward Adrian.

 

Adrian caught it awkwardly, Farkas now leaning back against the bar with his arms folded against his bare chest.

 

“Thanks.”

 

“Promise you'll look after it. Its good craftsmanship, like nothing you can get local, just don't tell Eorland I said so.”

 

“I give you my word against my honour.” Adrian offered his hand.

 

“I trust you.” Farkas clasped his forearm, and completely caught him by surprise when he pulled him flush against him. They were looking at each other, so close they were almost nose to nose, Something flashing behind his eyes before he leaned down into a bone breaking hug.

 

Adrian had not been prepared, and had possibly made a very undignified noise as the air was squeezed from his lungs. Farkas' idea of a friendly hug was like being squeezed by a sabrecat.

 

He completely stilled in place, uncertain quite what to do, eventually settling for just letting it happen and enjoying the moment. He wrapped his hands around him, a little reluctantly in case he was overstepping, Farkas skin over warm to the touch.

 

Afterwards the part that would stick with him in his memory was how sweet Farkas smelled, something oddly comforting even in its unfamiliarity. He hadn’t even realised he had completely relaxed into his hold until he was finally released, reluctant to be let go.

 

It was only much later again, during a quiet moment where he had just his thoughts, that he remembered that werewolves had many tricks that could lull their prey into easy submission. Hircine's perfect design, hunter and hunted, some subtle magic that made them hard to resist up close, that made prey pliant and docile, but was perhaps noticeable to those that hunted them in turn.

 

He'd once witnessed Serana pull a similar trick. It had been some poor Redguard girl that had been glancing at her all night and doing a terrible job at hiding her attraction, and for her trouble she had been left with nothing but a bad headache and the half there memory of some delightful kisses to her throat. Adrian did suspect something a little more had happened, given that it doesn’t take almost an hour to bite, take a sip, then slip away from an inn room. He had been tempted to find similar amusement himself while she was busy, a welcome distraction from finding the Scroll, but found his heart not in it no matter how attractive the men were and how many interested looks he was getting from off duty soldiers.

 

Farkas patted him heartily on the back, letting him go after perhaps a few moments too long. He quickly bundled the gambeson and mail into his arms and turned him about, pushing him out of his quarters with a swift reminder that Skjor was waiting.

 

He watched Adrian make haste toward the training yard in a daze, after a long moment taking a breath to still the thundering of his heart. He gently touched a too sharp tooth with his tongue, trying to will it away. He had nearly overstepped a boundary, an impulse saved only by quick thinking. Farkas had come dangerously close to kissing him. Or sinking his teeth into him. Or both. It was sometimes hard to separate the desires, just that they were 'want' in one form or another.

 

With barely a minute to spare Adrian made it out into the training space, still grinning like a fool, and looking the part too in a mail that could fit two of him almost with space to spare.

 

He made a delightful jingling noise when he walked that Aela found far funnier then it had any right to be. She had tried not to laugh, burying her face in a mug of mead, and succeeding only in choking on it while Vilkas sat back and ignored the entire situation, all the while Kodlak idly contemplated just what had befallen the guild that such a myriad of fools had fallen under his command.

 

Skjor had been expecting considerably less than he got. It was perhaps his foul mood souring his expectations, but there was a measure of genuine surprise in him when the meek little Breton managed to hold his own. Even when a gauntleted backhand bloodied his nose and split his lip he still fought on defiant, motivated. There was a spark of something bright and fierce in him that Skjor knew instinctively, what it was and what it meant.

 

Farkas and Adrian alike were idiots, but he had gone and made the same mistake with Aela. He was not so much a hypocrite as to forbid them from having their fun when he had taken Aela as more than just a packmate.

 

He was getting sentimental as age caught up with him, not quite as soft as Kodlak, but he could feel his knees ache on cold mornings now. Having someone in your heart made you sharper, stronger, able to take more punishment by willpower alone, but power like that always had a price. You were strong for them up until you weren’t, because one or the other would steal that strength with them and take it across the whalebone bridge (or the jaws of Oblivion in their case) and be gone forever. Loss destroyed good warriors like little else.

 

He stopped pulling his blows, fighting dirty like they would out in the field, and Adrian did start to make mistakes. He needed to be ready for anything, because Skjor would not be responsible for seeing Farkas' heart broken when the fool died doing something monumentally stupid. He was certain Adrian would walk with a head held high to his doom and still never see it coming.

 

Adrian swung too hard, overcommitting to the attack by far too much, the weight of the sword dragging him with it. It just enough to make an opening.

 

With a blow to his head Adrian crumpled, Skjor taking a rare moment of pity and catching him.

 

“Better. Not great, but better.” He kept his tone clipped, but some of his temper had dulled. There was something else there now, a melancholy usually reserved for the bad night where he remembered his time in the Legion during the Great War.

 

“Thanks.” Adrian wheezed it, not happy when Skjor dropped him the moment it was obvious he was fine.

 

He managed to right himself iwtyh some difficulty, uncertain quite how to move in heavy armour, staggering back to his feet like a freshly born deer.

 

“Get yourself patched up. And remember to go thank Farkas for that armour. Go buy him a pint of mead at the Mare, least you could do for the favour.” It was an obvious attempt to steer them together, but Adrian either failed to notice or chose not to react.

 

“I'll do that. When I can breath again.” Adrian was getting considerably higher pitched, turning an interesting colour. Skjor had clearly winded him, and Adrian was most definitely not allowed to use magic where he could be seen.

 

As soon as Skjor left him to his own, entering the hall for a drink and a chance to find Aela, he heard the distinct metal ringing of healing magic and caught the edge of golden light casting from his direction.

 

He still relied too much on magic. Progress was slowing simply because when he panicked his response was to cast a spell, not to rely on what he had to hand. Even then it sometimes took a long moment, Skjor had caught him drawing a sharp breath rather than relying on his blade when caught off guard. A strange habit to have acquired. He had to wonder just what it was that kept him alive out in the wilderness alone.

 

The more he had considered it the more he was certain Adrian was a much more accomplished mage than he was letting on. It was the only explanation he could come to. It still felt wrong, like they were missing somthing obvious, and Aela had agreed with him.

 

The storm above blew over a day later though something of its strangeness lingered yet still, just on the edges of reality. Like dust floating through an old library the smallest of breaches in the skin the world lingered, watching, waiting. Hungry.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments?


	8. An Offer Refused

 

Adrian approached the hall with Farkas half a pace behind. He stopped, Farkas catching up with a less than pleased expression. The hall had been decorated, bunting hanging from every free nook, the red banner of the Companions flown from every awning alongside the yellow banner of Whiterun Hold. From Farkas' dire expression it was not a good omen.

 

Skjor met them on the steps, clearly fleeing whatever was happening inside whilst trying to make it look like that was not the case. Aela was with him, her bow across her back along with a half filled backpack. That was a certain sign they were planning to go hunt on the plains and would not be back until some time later.

 

“I suggest you find somewhere else to be, unless your idea of a good time is pomp and ceremony.” The look Skjor gave Adrian suggested he thought it might be quite right for him. Adrian did not dignify a response.

 

“That time again?” Farkas folded his arms, wondering if he ought to just turn on his heel and go, pick a direction and wander for a day or so. He looked to Adrian, deciding otherwise. At the barest minimum he would ask the Breton to join him.

 

“Surprised you can't smell their rich blood on the wind. Thanes fattened on wine and cheese, not for the likes of us.” Aela scoffed. She ran her tongue over her teeth, prickling against the sudden sharpness drawn out by the thought of snapping one of the bastards clean in half between her jaws.

 

“Vilkas up there?” Farkas thought to rescue his brother, or at least try.

 

“Same as always, like a fish in water. Never could figure how he could stand it.” Skjor was leaning on his back foot then front, ready at a moments notice to move and clearly eager to get away.

 

“He's good with words. Smart enough to beat them at it too.” Farkas had the slightest of shifts in his demeanour when he spoke of his brother, a warmth to his tone, something Adrian had only recently come to notice. He was exceptionally hard to read without practice.

 

“I refuse to be paraded before the nobles like a prize mare, no matter how much Kodlak asks it.” Skjor faintly bared his teeth, the very thought of Kodlak irritating him. It was little secret amongst the Companions that Aela and Skjor both were having some kind of running argument with the Harbinger, though only the brothers and the Breton knew the truth of it. Kodlak was rejecting the gifts of Hircine, denying the change entirely, and this was at odds with those who embraced the moons and all of their many strengths.

 

“Can't say I disagree.” Farkas turned to Adrian, clearly looking for his opinion. “Thoughts?”

 

Aela sharply nudged Skjor, subtly nodding between Adrian and Farkas. There some silent communication between them, Adrian and Farkas both missing it entirely. Skjor just rolled his eyes, with a barely there huff of agreement.

 

“We could just stay below the hall until they're gone?”

 

“Tried that before. The Jarl asked for everyone within Jorvaskr to present themselves.”

 

“The Jarl?” Adrian stiffened slightly, the spike of worry that ran through him enough to slightly shift his scent under the natural bite of ash and woodsmoke that lingered on him. Farkas didn’t notice it, but the other werewolves certainly did. “Bannered Mare, I’ll pay?”

 

He could recall being recently summoned, as the Dragonborn, to some official function. The letter had been delivered by courier, wax sealed and terribly official looking. Now he knew exactly why. He had ignored it, too public to take the risk with his identity.

 

“Mighty generous of you.” Given the choice between empty compliments at a lavish feast and genuine company over a modest meal there would be no hesitation. Farkas saw it as a pleasant offer from a close friend. Aela and Skjor were not so certain.

 

Goodbyes were said between the two groups, splitting apart.

 

Up in the hall Kodlak and Vilkas were less than pleased. They had seen all four of them talking, and that they had chosen to stay as far away as possible. Technically the Harbinger could not order or compel any Companion, but he was certainly going to give them each and all an earful when they dared show their faces again.

 

They were now left to deal with a gaggle of thanes, housecarls, numerous and various retainers, and the Jarl himself, with only Brill and Tilma to assist.

 

Kodlak could only sigh, and resign himself to the task ahead. At least Vilkas could handle it with ease and skill.

 

Every noble in the hold was expected to be in attendance, as was tradition. The Jarl had been very much looking forward to showing off his newest Thane, the Dragonborn themselves, and had made it known that he was to be the guest of honour at the gathering.

 

Vilkas had been practically vibrating with excitement to meet a living legend, even Kodlak had to admit it would be a great honour. The Harbinger had even prepared a speech, something he hoped might sway the Dragonborn to sign on with the Companions. It had been months since their last recruit had joined, and though he would not say it aloud he though the Whelp was ill suited for the work. The Dragonborn by comparison would find the life of the Companions as easy as breathing.

 

There was a letter soon to be delivered into the Jarls hands stating the Dragonborn would be unable to attend. Adrian simply had to wait for the ink to dry, having slipped away from Farkas for a bare few moments under the pretense of needing to grab something he had forgotten.

 

Balgruuf would not be much pleased. Adrian dreaded the time when he would finally be back out in the field in his hood and cowl, because it was almost certain that a courier would find him with a deceptively politely worded response to his refusal.

 

The Companions all knew that they were of interest to the Jarl only so long as they brought honour and gold to their host city. The deal profited both sides well enough, but there was always the part of them that resented the collar and chain around their throat. The feast was simply a way for the Jarl to parade around his guild of hireable war hounds.

 

Adrian had no intention of letting the Jarl see him as a Companion, or let the Companions see his as Dragonborn. He had gone to great lengths to hide his identity, to keep the two as separate people, but he had been unable to refuse a direct order to remove his hood and cowl. Balgruuf knew his face, and it would take only a handful of words to ruin that carefully maintained separation.

 

At first he had thought her paranoia too much. That was until he had found Thalmor agents tracking his movements, looking for a gap in his defences they could exploit. Delphine had been careful to teach him how to maintain identities, how to carry himself with authority when he naturally wanted to slink away out of sight, how to speak with a different inflection, to use different words, to be a different person. It was all for the sole goal of making it clearly impossible that Adrian of Jehenna was the Dragonborn.

 

Delphine taught him secrecy for the sake of secrecy. It had been Esbern that showed him why it was needed.

 

As the last living archivist and lorekeeper of the Blades he had become a living record of a great many texts on the Dragonborn of years gone, the last remaining copies from which he had gained such secrets long gone up in flames with the rest of Cloudruler temple. He was transcribing what he could reliably recall, and with each new text Adrian saw what horror they had brought to the world. Some were ill prepared, failed by the Blades and the Greybeards of the era alike, and with their ignorance brought ruin upon everything they touched. Others were bent to the will of the powerful and subversive, made to do great harm for fear of the lives of those they loved. Adrian refused to be either.

 

The Companions were not Talos worshippers, but their secret would still damn them all the same. The Thalmor would certainly try to use them as leverage, and failing that they would burn Jorrvaskr to the ground with the whole guild trapped inside just to send a message. Adrian would not allow that to happen.

 

“I think Hulda has a stock of juniper mead in right now.” Adrian shook the thoughts from his head, and focused on what mattered most to him. He wanted the day to be one of good company.

 

“I wouldn’t say no to one.”

 

“Have as many as you want. We have all evening.” Adrian loved the way Farkas smiled, it was a subtle thing more in the eyes than the lip, but it was there.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Adrian had been oddly loose lipped, the wine he had been convinced to try doing a fair part of that. Farkas had been genuinely stunned, and genuinely enthralled with his stories when he had finally opened up. He had fought lichs, vampires, cultists, Daedra of every variety, Forsworn and so many beasts without count. It also seemed that once Adrian started talking he would not stop.

 

Farkas had confided that he had always wanted to fight a dragon, but could find absolutely nobody willing to hunt one with him. He had been to lost in his own fantasy, staring off into the void, and missed the way Adrian had smirked when said he would love more than anything else to go out on a job with the Dragonborn, to fight by their side. In that moment he had looked so unguarded in his joy, strange but not unattractive compared to his usually stoic expression.

 

With a warmth in his chest from the alcohol and all of its fools courage backing him up Adrian had wanted to kiss him. All it would take was to reach over, turn his head and lean in. He could almost feel the coarse hair against his hand and against his skin, and wondered if Farkas' lips were sweet with mead.

 

He realised that the alcohol was making him both brave and foolish and chose to look away instead to avoid the temptation.

 

They had eventually settled down to play a card game, Pale Pass, one Farkas had never even heard of and knew exactly nothing of the rules. It even needed a special deck of cards, one of which Belethor had somehow managed to get in stock a week prior. Adrian had bought it the moment he had seen it, eager to play and unfortunately having friends only interested in mead, red meat and fighting.

 

It was almost midnight when they returned to the hall, Farkas basking in the warm glow of good mead, good food and good company.

 

He had almost entertained the idea that Adrian was enjoying his company as something more than Shield Brothers, the idea dismissed as foolish. The longer he spent in the Bretons company the more certain he was that there was more there than simple friendship, and the more certain he became that he couldn’t trust his judgement anymore. He had thought too many times that he had caught him watching, but it was impossible for Adrian to be so fast of eye to look away to not quite be caught every time, to not be seen to be looking. It was a rare skill to not be caught spying on someone, a skill he would need to be taught by someone like Delphine.

 

It would be simple to thread their fingers together, a quiet gesture but one all too clear in its intentions. He could not bring himself to do it, cursing his cowardice. He had come so close, fingers almost touching, recoiling with a flinch.

 

Adrian had thought the gaggle of nobles would be gone by now. A dire mistake. He had caught one look at the room and instantly slipped aside, pulling up a spell to muffle his movements and readying another to cloak his presence from sight with two quick flickers of light and a twist of his fingers.

 

The door had opened mercifully silent, only those with the sharpest senses looking up to see who it was. Farkas nodded to Aela and Skjor who had been caught on their return, their guess to when the nobles would leave even worse than Adrians, the room turning when they realised there was another Companion joining them late.

 

Farkas turned and found nothing but empty air, too late to escape himself. He resigned himself to his fate, heading in.

 

Adrian crept up toward the Skyforge so that he might at least be warm next to its embers. He avoided the windows, following the city wall as close as possible to hide his silhouette, and instead found a door left strangely open.

 

He had noticed it before, carved right into the rock of the Skyforge, the mechanism to open it obscured. Kodlak had all but ordered him to be silent on the topic when he had once asked about it.

 

What force had compelled him to enter he could not quite say, only that he found himself inside without feeling himself taking the steps.

 

The place tingled like old magic.

 

It wasn’t the crisp clean magic of the College, old and familiar like a well worn tunic freshly starched and washed, worn on a breezy day. It was evasive, flickering and pacing as if looking for a way in, hungry and chaotic. He couldn't explain why, he just that he knew beyond the stone walls there was a vast forest sprawling in every direction, that underfoot, beneath the gravel, there was freshly fallen snow littered with animal bones.

 

He was so easily lost breathing in the thick forest air and its thick scent of something spiced and intoxicating, familiar somehow, carried on a heavy breeze, that he failed to hear two of his guildmates stalk up to him with soft steps. There was suspicion in their eyes, at home next to the yellow-white glint of beast blood that seemed just a little brighter where the walls of the worlds were thinner.

 

“This place isn’t for the likes of you.” Skjor watched him startle, backing up against the stone basin.

 

“I'm sorry, the door was open.” Adrian made an excuse, still unsure what had compelled him.

 

“When you saw the Jarl you ran. You didn’t want him to see you.” Aela was watching him carefully, making Adrian feel like a mouse being toyed with by a cat. Or a wounded deer with a patient wolf.

 

“So what is it then? A bounty on your head for crimes against the Hold?” Skjor had his arms crossed, leaning back against the walls.

 

“No.”

 

“Then why don't we march you back in there, see what he has to say.”

 

“No!” Adrian bit his lip. “Its not what i've done, its what he knows.”

 

He realised too late that he had said too much to be let go, and not enough to make them stop asking.

 

Aela and Skjor exchanged a look, something conspiratorial passing between them.

 

“Prove we can trust you.” Skjor spoke to Adrian, but was looking at Aela expectantly. “You passed your trial, perhaps its time to see if you are worthy of truly joining the Circle.”

 

“The beast blood. We've been waiting for a good enough time to make you the offer. Why not now?” Aela had drawn a thin blade, moving up to the stone basin. He was now surrounded, no matter who he turned to his back was exposed.

 

“I can't.” Adrian took a step away from Aela, eyeing the blade and then the stains in the basin with a dawning understanding.

 

The air grew hot, fur and sweat and musk bleeding over from elsewhere.

 

“Can't, or won't?”

 

“I can't.” He could not be certain how the beast blood would react to his dragon blood. The Dragonborn power was of the Aedra, something of the Divine, the sacred force of Anu and its ordered, static nature. The beast blood was Daedric, chaos and change embodied, the force of Padomay. Opposites in all things. There was no certain answer, no previous example to learn from, only risk and danger.

 

“Why?”

 

“I can't.”

 

They were being watched, eyes in the darkness taking small soundless steps forward through soft fallen leaves.

 

“Get the Jarl.”

 

Adrian felt the choices and consequences reaching out from that moment, and made the choice he thought best. In the depths of the forest the biggest of beasts turned its gaze to the mortal world, searching for what it was that pricked the skin of his realm.

 

“ **Fus**.” The magic scattered, the forest and its ancient bones gone in an instant. The jaws of Oblivion retreated just a little further away, knowing it had not yet ensnared another soul.

 

The silence lasted a little too long, Aela and Skjor quickly working out exactly what had just happened and what it meant, who Adrian was, what he was.

 

Adrian backed up against the stone basin, not looking at either of them as if ashamed.

 

“Dragonborn.” Aela finally spoke.

 

“I can't.” This time they understood. His stance shifted, his tone now razor sharp. “This goes no further, no one can know.”

 

For that short moment they could believe he was the Dragonborn. Stood tall, expression harsh and cold, something fundamentally different to him.

 

In that moment he felt braver then he should have. It rose in him like the Thuum, that same distant almost memory of being something other than a mortal man. A thing of wings and claws, scales and fire. Not brave, but without a concept of fear. Wholly alien to humanity.

 

He pushed past them out into the night air, gone with a quick flicker of spells. He would not return until dawn, acting as if nothing had happened.

 

Farkas was mildly annoyed that he had been abandoned to his unfortunate fate, quickly forgiven when an apology was dropped in his lap. A whole case of juniper mead was apparently all it took to buy Farkas' forgiveness, not that he could ever really hold a grudge.

 

Skjor and Aela chose to keep his identity, if only because now they were all bound by secrets. The wolves would keep the dragon if it could promise the same.

 

There was a private discussion for the three of them on the horizon, but it could wait. Aela knew well enough that their secret was safe. Adrian would not betray Farkas, even if he was too much a fool and a coward to ever say aloud how hew felt.

 

 

 


	9. Cornered

 

 

 

It was a perfectly calm day by the typical standards of the Companions. There was no work to be done, and the whole guild had been recalled so that they might better make a decision on several big contracts that they needed to pick and choose from. Kodlak was due to return by nightfall from his negotiations, hopefully with an arm full of jobs.

 

Vilkas has taken the time to immerse himself in some history, yet more accounts of the various Dragonborn that had come before. Aela caroused. Skjor provided the alcohol. The Whelps listened to Aelas stories, with the exception of Adrian, gone to High Wrothgar two days ago to bang his head against a wall at all of the politics.

 

Aela had sent a letter by courier to Ivarstead, addressed to the Dragonborn instead, so that he at least had the chance to return and put his say into the choice of jobs. She had written it in just such a way that it made no direct references to anything, all subtext.

 

A letter had arrived back with a completely different courier, another paranoid precaution, completely blank. It was at least a confirmation that he knew.

 

The contracts were to be a guild decision, to be put to the vote, his likely defaulting to either Farkas or Aela if he had failed to appear.

 

Farkas had been out on a job within the Hold since the day prior, and was expected to be back fairly soon.

 

It had been almost dusk when Adrian had entered the hall. His travel pack was heavy, clearly overstuffed, and there was a sharpness to his expression that spoke of frustration. Aela had asked for a private word, offering her quarters. She could sense he needed to unburden himself, and since Skjor was not one for conversation that lasted beyond twenty words it had fallen to her.

 

Vilkas watched them head downstairs, irritated that Aela had gotten to him first.

 

His mood was not entirely the result of having to deal with Ulfric and Tullius in the same room for several hours, but it had not been helped by it in the slightest. Negotiations had been slow, getting into increasingly tedious minutia while the Dragonborn had to sit in the middle as arbitrator. It had been made all the worse by Arngeir before negotiations had even begun, and Esbern afterwards trying to force his hand against his own best interests.

 

Arngeir had challenged him again on his use of Thuum, and his willingness to trust the Blades. Adrian refused to be lectured like a disobedient pupil if Arngeir would not be his teacher.

 

“The Thuum is too great a thing to be used so frivolously.” Adrian had repeated the Greybeard with a sneer, clearly seething about being spoken down to. Aela could understand his stance. “Mastery of the Voice cannot be rushed without consequence. Especially in one so ill prepared for it.”

 

Adrian had already had an argument with them previously over their complete refusal to teach him anything of use, that they chose their dead end ideology over the fate of the mortal world and the lives of all within it. He was tired of them, they would offer no help to him until he swore himself to their code and their cause. Even the Blades had been somewhat free with their information, at least at first.

 

Within the same day he had told Arngeir he would seek truth elsewhere Esbern had all but banished him from Skyhaven and the Blades. As much as he loathed the Greybeards and their silence, Paarthurnax was a useful ally. He had been open and honest, his motivations laid bare and his wisdom taught freely.

 

Now he was stuck without the depths of knowledge either possessed, making him the very thing both feared he might become. A guideless Dragonborn with no clue what threat he posed to the natural balance of the world.

 

Aela had helped him unpack, offering her room to stash anything from his other identity. His training was finally starting to show results, at the barest minimum he now had strength enough to carry the armour on his back and another for his other self. She had actually suggested that if he kept his training up that there was hope Farkas wouldn't snap him in half if they ever did manage to bed one another. Adrian had not been impressed by the comment.

 

It was a half hour later, neither Farkas nor Kodlak yet back, when Adrian returned to the upper hall to wait for them and the big meeting that had been planned. Aela had left him in peace to wash, and change his clothing.

 

He had sat next to a window, scribbling plans in a small leather bound book.

 

There was a peaceful murmur of conversation and activity, Tilma the only one doing much of anything going back and forth with mead and sweetrolls.

 

Vilkas approached him after a lengthy time just staring and considering, practically stalking his way across the hall to corner him. He caught a brief glance at what he had been working on before it was snapped shut and left on the bench as he stood; a crude map of Skyrim marked with the present Imperial-Stormcloak-Independant Whiterun borders and holdings.

 

Adrian met him with a wry smile, not backing down from those bright, intense eyes. He had found they were slightly lighter in tone than Farkas' but nowhere near as soft. Farkas had a kindness to him, hard to spot but near always there. Vilkas chose what few moments of kindness he could afford carefully. Farkas had to choose which ones were least painful not to, even then kept only in check by duty and practice.

 

Vilkas had long taken the lesson to heart that one mercenary could not change the world for the better, that it was not his place to try and save every lost soul. Farkas still tried in little ways. Just small acts, each easily missed, like a few gold coins to a war orphan, or taking a few minutes out of his day to ferry supplies to the healers at the temple.  
  
Without faltering Adrian tried to say something smart and disarming, Vilkas raising his hand and clenching his fist to indicate without doubt that he was going to speak first and that he demanded silence.

 

“What designs do you have on my brother?” Vilkas watched as Adrian shifted his stance, shoulders forward, head low, feet aligned to either run or shift the weight of a blow past and away from him. Defensive. In better circumstances he would be impressed with those instincts. Skjor had likely beaten them into him over the last few months.

 

“I don't know what you...” He was being too careful with his words and relying on that silver tongue of his, a little of that ancient Mer ancestry wriggling to the surface.

 

“I'm not in the mood for your wiles and games Breton, speak plainly and honestly. Do you have feelings for my brother, or do you simply desire to bed him?”

 

Farkas had told him everything about the incident in the Dwemer ruin. Everything. Apparently Vilkas had found something in Farkas' recollection he didn’t like. Likely the part where they were both naked in a river.

 

He had confessed considerably more than he should have, hoping his brother would understand. He did understand, and wished to Hircine and all of the Divines that he didn't have to help his brother deal with feelings he was refusing to put the correct name to. He knew, and wished he didn’t know, that his brother was easy to bed, and found it easy to bed others. But there had never been anything beyond that. Farkas was certainly wanting to bed the less than brilliant Breton but didn’t want it to be a temporary thing, and most certainly didn’t want to ruin their friendship in the process.

 

He was certain Farkas could get Adrian on his knees in barely twenty words, but had deliberately neglected to tell either of them that. The fools could figure it out for themselves.

 

Adrian had paused for thought, considering his answer carefully. Vilkas did not take this too well if his increasingly stormy look was a good indication.

 

“Let me put it another way, do you want Farkas' heart or what hangs from his loins?” This time Vilkas was outright vicious with his tone. “Either make the right choice or back off, because I will not see him hurt. Least of all by you.”

 

“Can I not desire both of those things?” The sly smile and raised eyebrow did not move him in the slightest. “I don't want to hurt him, and I don't want to pursue desires that are not returned.”

 

“I said to speak plainly.” He had wanted to call him every manner of blind idiot and ignorant fool, but thought it not the best way to handle the situation. If everything was reversed and it was his brother in his place trying to nudge them along Farkas would probably have called Adrian considerably worse than that and then gave him that unblinking, piercing stare of his. It was lucky one of the twins knew a degree of tact.

 

“Yes. I want to spend my nights with him. I want to be with him, and yes to be fucked by him. Was that spoken plainly enough for you?” Adrian had not known where the surge of fire and rage had come from, but it had felt brilliant until he remembered that he ought to be horrified. Those affairs were to be whispered and clandestine, not announced aloud to the brother of the conquest to be.

 

“Close enough.” Vilkas seemed somewhat satisfied with that answer. “I suggest you try telling him those things.”

 

“Its not that simple, or that easy.” Adrian folded his arms, letting his stance drop into a slouch.

 

“Yes it is. Let me put this is a way that your delicate Daggerfall sensibilities will understand; In Skyrim the summer is short and the winter long, don't waste what precious little time you have on what-ifs and maybes. That not how we Nords do things.” Adrian chose to let the Daggerfall comment pass, he was a native of the city state of Jehenna on the opposite side of High Rock. He was not a highborn snob, even if his bloodline had produced some very influential people.

 

“Its really not that easy.”

 

Vilkas cleared his throat, trying not to grin at how he knew the Breton would react.

 

“Aela!”

 

“What do you want?” She looked up from her drink, interrupted in whatever tale of conquest she had been telling the Whelps.

 

“Are you free this evening to be bedded and taken?”

 

“No.” She paused to contemplate, her brow dipping in confusion. “You don't even like women? Do you? Why in the name of Sheogoraths balls would you ask me for a quick fuck?”

 

“I was making a point about how easy it is to just ask someone.”

 

She looked at Adrian who was trying and failing to retreat into his armour like a startled mudcrab, knowing instantly what it was all about.

 

“I get it now. You're not really my type, but I’m flattered you asked at least. Farkas is more my tastes, but I think he might not be available for all that much longer.” She dropped the conversation altogether and returned to her story as if she had never diverted from it, none in the room thinking a second thing about what had been said except for Adrian and Athis.

 

The dark elf was now blinking rapidly and trying to make sense of what had just happened and how they could be so forward about it. His homeland was a place where courtships were deeply private, entangled affairs as complex as grandmaster chess and just a thrilling intellectually. Azura taught that there was a proper moment, in the twilight between courtship and love, for such things to be spoken of. Mephala whispered that such things were secret and subtle, and Boethiah revealed that only through certainty, the absolute strength of mind and body should such things be shared. All were sacred, intimate, and most certainly not to be shouted across a hall.

 

Adrian was praying to the Divines and a few of the Daedra he was certain he had the attention of, wishing for Nirn to crack asunder and swallow him whole so he would not have to be stood bolt straight in corner of a mercenary hall as he turned as red as Mehrunes Dagon and as frozen as a deer in the sights of Hircine. He was almost certain with the right prayer he could be whisked away to Oblivion, to a garden of silver roses or a city cracked down the middle. Either would do.

 

“Have I made my point?” By this point Vilkas was satisfied enough, a smug smile tugging at his lip just enough for the tip of a too sharp tooth to poke through.

 

Adrian mumbled something in return, his voice failing him entirely. He made a motion to his discarded book, orange light barely flickering as it shot up to his hand.

 

“No magic!” An apple hit the wall just next to his head, exploding into chunks, Skjors aim just a little off.

 

He fled from the hall to find sanctuary anywhere but with the Companions. Aela and Vilkas both silently judging him as he left with haste, then loudly judging his cowardice once he was gone. Skjor just silently seethed to himself that the Whelp had ignored him again. He had insisted more times than he dared count that magic not be used anywhere near him. It never brought any good.

 

Farkas was more than disappointed to find him gone before his return. It had been a less than great contract, and he was looking to share his story with Adrian and add 'The Necromancer Sild' to his list of notable victories.

 

It seemed to be a too common thing for Adrian to be gone when he was certain he was there.  
  


 


	10. Too Much, Too Little, Too Easily

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a warning this chapter gets a little graphic. If you want to skip the part search for 'fire and words' and pick up from there.

 

 

 

 

The light danced about his hands as he pressed them against Skjors chest and poured it all in. There was blood. Too much blood. It stuck to his hands, thick and viscous, touched by the stale air for too long, and still he poured in all of his magicka. He just had to get his heart to beat, just once, just for a moment.

 

It was Aela that stopped him. He had long ran out of magicka and was pulling on reserves not meant to be drawn upon. The skin on his hands had cracked and bled, the veins bright and seared beneath the surface. Competent mages had died drawing less.

 

She took his hands, slowly, almost reverently, and moved them away, one and then the other.

 

He reached out again, trying to pull up just one more spell, fighting back the white hot burn that raced up the magicka channels of his arm, coiling around his heart and sticking in his throat.

 

Aela gently touched his cheek just for a moment, smearing it with blood without meaning to, saying nothing.

 

He said something, his lips moving but no words actually coming forth.

 

“You tried.” Aela's voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper.

 

He tried to speak again, something like 'I'm sorry' almost coming out.

 

“You tried.”

 

She lowered her hand from his cheek, her eyes hardened as her teeth grew long and sharp in her mouth.

 

Adrian found the ground easily, knees tucked up to his chest, ignoring the screams that echoed down the halls as Aela too easily found her vengeance.

 

He looked up to see who was casting a shadow over him. Their mask was cracked, spiral eyes leering down at him. A question was asked, Adrian strangely compelled to answer truthfully. When he blinked they were gone and were never there.

 

He could not be certain how long he sat there, keeping vigil over Skjors body. He only knew that the screams grew distant and then silent. Aela was either done, or too far to be heard. He wouldnt let himself think of the third possibility, that in her own grief she had been clumsy enough to be struck down.

 

The veins on the inside of his arms, from fingertip to shoulder, were broken and bruised beneath the skin. He could only look at them, unable to draw magic enough to do anything to fix it. His reserves were worse than emptied, they had been seared and damaged. Not permanently, at least he hoped it wasn't, but he would need rest, good food and bright sunlight to bring his body back into balance.

 

It was Farkas that found him. He was nursing a potion, blue and luminous, taking only sips from it that did near nothing for exhausted reserves.

 

He had entered the chamber with his weapon readied, sent by Kodlak to at least attempt reign Aela and Skjor in before they did something foolish.

 

Without a word he helped Adrian to his feet and guided him back to the surface. He had glanced at Skjors body, pushing his desire to mourn aside while his shield-brother needed him. There would be time later.

 

Aela's rampage had turned the walls and floors slick and gory. Another horror for Adrian to ignore, always there like a nagging anxiety, like the one thing he was avoiding.

 

It was time. Destiny had been calling and he had been forcibly ignoring it in favour of spending time with the Companions. The trap was set, waiting only for his presence so that they might capture one of Alduins lieutenants. He had intended only to say his last goodbyes to the Companions when Aela had ambushed him with a job of vital importance. She was terrifying and persuasive in equal amounts, or perhaps she was persuasive because she was terrifying. In the end he had agreed to go with her, bribed with promises of victory over the Silver Hand.

 

The fighting had not been the glory he had been promised. Aela had foregone her usual bow for a pair of thin daggers. He had never seen Aela in combat before, and had perhaps held some romantic notion that she moved with the speed, beauty and grace of the wolf. He was almost right, she did move like a wolf, but it was neither beautiful nor graceful. It was vicious, snapping at exposed tendons and soft throats, tearing her prey apart with an animal efficiency before moving on without a second look or thought.

 

Adrian had simply followed in her shadow as she wove through them in sprays of gore and quick slashes of steel, catching an unlucky few with a shard of ice to the heart or the head. By some measures they were the lucky ones, Aela had left more than a few of the Silver Hand just alive enough to spend their last minutes in unspeakable agony.

 

He had managed to lose her for barely a minute, catching up by following the trail of suffering. He had to stop, taking pity on one of them he had found babbling and crying as he tried and very much failed to scrape his insides back in.

 

Adrian had knelt down, the dying man failing to scramble away in terror when they saw the bright glow of his eyes from the Mer blood and thought it beast blood instead. Adrian had gently reassured them, wondering just how someone who could not possibly have seen twenty summers had fallen in with werewolf hunters. He had seen Farkas do much the same to fallen enemies not yet dead but still suffering, telling them to close their eyes as his mercy was delivered with a single swing to sever head from body, a short muttering that might have been a last rites following.

 

“Right thing to do.” Farkas had said the first time Adrian had witnessed it. “Mercy's a choice, not always an easy one.”

 

He had always suspected it was something Vilkas had read aloud but only Farkas had truly understood. It felt like something a Nord warrior philosopher would say.

 

Adrian had leaned in as if to whisper in his ear and loosed a ' **Fus** ' so close it had shattered his neck in a merciful instant. He had to remember that it was the right thing to do, even when the snapping sound prickled across his skin like being the shock of being doused in ice water.

 

The Skinner was in the deepest sanctum of Gallows Rock, and true to his name he was draped in the skinned furs of his victims. Some of the leather wrappings on his axe were an ashen grey and dulled Mer yellow gold that suggested not every wolf he skinned had been in the beast form.

 

Aela closed in too fast for Adrian to follow, her blade finding his side and his axe catching the other. Her front was exposed, a heavy boot slamming into her stomach, an elbow to the back of her head and a punch sending her reeling back with blood from her lip and nose.

 

Adrian swung, catching him almost off guard. He took a decent sized nick off the haft of his weapon, pulling back in time to block the return.

 

He raised his blade, a sloppy parry but hopefully enough for what he needed. He had not expected his own sword to splinter, barely held together as cracks spidered down the length of it. He reared back and head-butted him through the opening, a ' **Yol** ' lost and hidden in the crunch of nose breaking against forehead.

 

The Skinner dropped his weapon, shrieking and flailing as the flames consumed him. Adrian swept his hand, orange glow flaring for just a moment as that axe had clattered across the floor and up into Aelas hands.

 

With a battlecry she had charged him, and with a single arcing swing split the Skinner diagonally from shoulder to hipbone, hefted the axe free and took off his head before he could even hit the floor.

 

Adrian staggered back, caught in the spray, finding purchase on a blood slick table before the high of the adrenaline failed him. That was how he had found Skjor, sputtering and barely there. The Skinner had only had a few minutes alone with him, but it had been plenty enough.

 

Adrian did what he could, too little of Skjor left to work with.

 

Those were the events he would be going over, again and again, each choice questioned and requestioned.

 

It was too bright in his thoughts, every time he closed his eyes all he could see was Skjor and the warmth that had lit his expression for barely a few second seeing Aela, and worse how it had simply flickered away. Gone too easily.

 

There had not been enough time. Adrian cursed himself for letting it happen.

 

Now that they were walking back he had only his thoughts and regrets. A precious few moments lost to mercy, a handful when he could have simply blasted the Skinner apart with Thuum, maybe even a little more time if he had taken the beast blood, been just that little bit faster as a thing of fur and claws. Perhaps any one would have been enough to save Skjor.

 

He had joined the guild for one reason, so that they could train him to better face the World Eater. Skjor had taken part of the role of mentor, training him without knowing at first to fulfil his role as saviour of Skyrim. That time had come, and with it his time with the guild should have ended.

 

He had once intended to join the College of Winterhold, but even after all of his training they had turned their noses up at him. As Adrian of Jehenna they had dismissed him, in cloak and cowl as the Dragonborn they had welcomed him and his search for the Elder Scroll.

 

Skjor had probably died because he made the wrong decision, because he was simply too slow making the right choices. Alduin awaited, and he could not put it off any longer. There was more at stake than simply a friend and mentor.

 

It was to be too many hours before they made it back to Jorrvaskr, the journey back entirely in silence.

 

Adrian was too lost in thought, lost to the outside world, and Farkas knew well enough to leave well alone when someone was lost in their own thoughts.

 

He had wanted to reach out to him, to hold him or tell him he was going to be fine eventually. No matter how much he wanted to, he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Kodlak was waiting for them, ready full of fire and words, both put aside with a single telling look from Farkas.

 

Aela did not return for a significant amount of time, but when she did Kodlak had stewed long enough, ready to let her know whose fault it was that Skjor was gone. In return she had a tally of kills to her name as long as her arm and a dying confession of the location of every Silver Hand outpost extracted one strip of flesh at a time.

 

Adrian retreated to the shared quarters and fell into a fitful sleep. Farkas should not have left him to mourn alone, but couldn't quite bring himself to go and comfort him.

 

His dreams were uneasy, disjointed. Many places, many people, familiar and new and somewhere between.

 

He thought he saw Skjor for a brief moment amongst a forest of trees as tall as mountains before it twisted into an ocean of inky black under a sickly green sky, Skjor now a man in a mask of polished gold who asked him questions he couldn’t quite answer. The questions grew urgent and bitter before the sea reached up and swallowed him whole.

 

He saw his uncles, one clad in orange and purple, the other in layered linen and leathers, having tea in a garden of silver roses under moon and star light. One was as he always was, the other deeply unimpressed with the sandwiches. They had left a chair for him, or perhaps someone more important. It was draped in silks the colour of the dawn, or perhaps the dusk, that shimmered like liquid.

 

They had advice for him, conflicting and argumentative as usual, though he couldn’t recall any of it by the time he was awoken by someone standing over his bed.

 

By morning he was shivering and sore, no more rested than when he had gone to bed. His reserves had healed too quickly, perhaps a gift from one or the other, perhaps simply something he didn’t know about being Dragonborn. All that mattered was that his magic was back for the fight to come.

 

Farkas' night had been little better.

 

Vilkas had not once left his side. He had not said it, would not say it, but he was concerned for Farkas' well being both physical and mental. Farkas had downed a fair amount of their supply of everything with even a hint of alcohol, and nobody wanted or felt it was right to stop him. He had even managed to down a quarter bottle of one of Tilmas cleaning concoctions, misplaced in the pantry and mostly harmless, probably putting a delightful shine on the inside of his stomach in the process.

 

It was late into the night when he had finally had enough of his brother smothering him and sent him away. His words had been biting, meant to hurt. Vilkas understood his pain, taking no offence.

 

He had intended to simply go to bed, but as he passed the Whelp quarters he felt himself drawn in.

 

It was only intended to be a quick check to be sure he was doing well. He hadn’t meant to when he crept into the room like a thief, but seeing Adrian look so peaceful after the horrors of the day that had just passed he could not resist.

 

He had gently brushed the hair away from his forehead and planted a soft kiss there.

 

“I think I love you, and I don’t want to lose you too.” It was a quietly muttered confession, but all too loud to his own ears. He was glad that the other Whelps were still upstairs. He wanted no witnesses, nobody to hear, not even Adrian.

 

He had thought it would help the pain in his chest, and it only made it worse. He retreated quickly, sealing the door behind him.

 

His own quarters were too quiet, and the inside of his head too loud with only the ceiling to stare up at from his bed, so he did what any foolish drunk Nord would do to quiet a broken heart and downed every bottle of mead in his quarters. It took just enough of the pain away that rest finally caught up to him.

 

Too long after dawn Farkas checked in the shared quarters, carrying a bowl of Tilmas best soup and fresh bread as a gift. In troubled times it always brought him comfort, and he thought perhaps Adrian could use more than a little of that.

 

He found Adrian's bed empty.

 

He had slipped out hours ago, only Athis catching the back of him.

 

Farkas ended up having the soup, and it did surprisingly little to sooth his own troubled soul.

 

There was a commotion that night up at the Dragonsreach. The Guard had all been sworn to secrecy, and they most definitely didn’t tell Vilkas, who dutifully didn’t tell any of the eagerly listening members of the Circle, that the Dragonborn had been spotted. Supposedly a dragon had been summoned and captured, all for some elaborate plan to force open a doorway to Sovngarde and slay Alduin.

 

Vilkas relayed the information with relish, Farkas finding his own enthusiasm for it too distant.

 

Nobody would admit it, speak it, even acknowledge it. But Skjor was gone. His body was not recovered, though his funeral pyre had been spectacular. All of Gallows Rock had gone up in flame so fierce the smoke had blighted the sky and rained ash as far away as Windhelm.

 

There had been no funeral up on the Skyforge without a body, and likely there wouldn't be. They had thought to burn his armour, as close to a body as they could get, and thought it foolish. Skjor never cared much for ceremony.

 

They would simply have a drink in his name, a quiet thing, and then forget his name in all but song and reminiscence. That was the way of the warriors of Jorrvaskr.

 

It was only Aela that seemed troubled by the news from Dragonsreach. There was a saying she had once heard, and thought it strange even then, that 'those that stray to the place of souls only half come back'. Adrian was marching head first into a place no living creature should enter.

 

She knew that adding to his many woes was a heavy heart, itself a dangerous thing to carry around. It dulled the senses and stole strength from a strong sword arm like any other poison.

 

While Vilkas waxed poetic about the Dragonborn; hooded and cowled, mysterious and evasive to a fault, she knew that it was the Whelp. The fool that had come to them as green as the plains in spring, that Skjor had taken a personal interest in teaching how to actually wield steel, that had come to them barely knowing which end of a sword was the stabbing end, was going to face down Alduin with a head full of sadness and a chest full of lovesickness.

 

She hoped that he wasn’t going to his death, least of all because it would break Farkas in a way even she couldn’t bear to see. She loved the icebrained idiot like a brother, and would do near anything to protect him, not that she would ever admit it, but even she knew deep down that the two of them were always going to be teetering on the edge of disaster. Least of all because Adrian had kept one very big secret. Secrets had a way of destroying a man, The Circle knew that all too well.

 

Aela chose to keep his secret, at least for a little while, and pretended that the story of the Dragon being summoned and fought was a distant glory to be sung about for generations to come and not one of their own facing down a horror they were likely not prepared for.

 

 

 

 

 

 


	11. Dragonborn

 

 

 

It had been a week and he had not yet returned. Aela knew with some distant horror that if he had failed, if he had died battling the World Eater, then very soon they would all be joining him.

 

She wondered just how the other Companions had never noticed Adrians life since coming to the province made little sense. Thinking back on his stories it was clear there was gaps that could only be filled by his status as Dragonborn. People trusted him too readily with sensitive tasks, more so than was typical even for adventurers for hire, and more than a few of the ruins he had claimed to have delved were strongholds of the old dragon cults.

 

Since she had found out he had shared a few more stories in private that could not be told otherwise without carving too much truth from them. The defeat of Harkon, the Time Wound, the hunt for the Elder Scrolls, the reading of them, and too many other things she could only barely believe.

 

Skjor had once had his suspicions that Adrian was more than he appeared, but had never leapt to such an insane conclusion that he was Dragonborn. Farkas saw little past his ridiculous infatuation, and Vilkas only saw him as the object of his brothers ridiculous infatuation. Kodlak suspected something, but Aela had no way of asking him without potentially revealing that she knew something more than she should.

 

When she thought on it, it made little sense. Adrian had been careful to cover his tracks. The only true evidence beyond what she had witnessed where that his absences all lined up with Dragonborn sightings.

 

Farkas had grown oddly sullen, saying even less than before. Where typically he would speak in a handful of words he now used only one or two, and perhaps an irritated snort at being disturbed.

 

Vilkas and Aela both had tried to raise his spirits, succeeding only in making him withdraw even farther from them. Aela knew his mood could be lifted, if perhaps only for a moment, by the truth. But she was honour bound not to tell him. It would only have turned betrayal and hurt into worry and perhaps mourning. It had been too long.

 

Vilkas was beyond furious with Adrian. To his eyes they had simply abandoned their duty, walked away from the Companions without a word. Abandoned Farkas without a word. The first sleight had earned him Vilkas' anger, the second had earned him the sharp end of his sword.

 

It always struck Farkas the hardest when they lost a Shield-Brother. Typically that was when the guild closed ranks, withdrew from the world for a little while to let the wound heal. That Adrian was seen to have fled at such a crucial time was a sleight few could ignore.

 

Kodlak had said nothing, which from the old man was the worst of condemnations. A good friend, a good Companion got praises sung between mead and jubilation, a foul enemy and fair adversary got the loudest of curses. Silence was reserved for only the worst. Silence was to be without honour, without achievement fair or foul.

 

The other Whelps chattered amongst themselves. Adrian had half ascended to the Circle, caught between being a fresh recruit and actually a full member of the Companions. His disappearance, along with Skjors death, had opened space for them to rise. All that remained was to see just who was worthy.

 

Aela had done nothing yet to dissuade them, but in time she would have to. Adrian had ascended to the Circle only because he had discovered their secret. It had been a purely tactical choice, to cement his loyalty and keep the truth hidden. He had proven himself over time, possibly enough that in a different life he would now be first in their considerations for the role, but all those months ago he had certainly not been worthy. The Whelps were not even close to ready, most now lagging behind the missing Dragonborn. They were all bravado and little skill, though not without potential.

 

There was a 'thunk' as something heavy hit the door to the hall. Farkas made a noise of irritation when nobody entered the hall, slamming what was likely his fourth cup of mead onto the table and stormed up to the door to find out who or what it was.

 

He tore open the door inwards only to have Adrian, who had been leaning heavily against it, collapse into him. Farkas caught him, seven days of bitterness and resentment washed away in an instant.

 

“I did it.” Was all he said before completely slumping into Farkas arms, his eyes bright with pride in those last few moments before the darkness at the edge of his sight closed in.

 

Farkas had just been confused, but Aela knew what it meant. They were all saved from the World Eater. There would be time later for relief.

 

There was blood, dried and flaking, streaked across his face. He had at some point tried using the cloth hanging loosely from his neck, a cowl that could hide most of his face, to daub at it to little effect.

 

His armour was ruined, leather and chainmaille torn away from the side in a way clearly not made by any mortal weapon. The wound beneath had been hastily sealed with magic but was still ugly and raw. His gambeson and tunic were soaked through so much so it was stiff to the touch. Aela had to wonder just how little blood was left inside him.

 

He was pale and his breathing was too shallow. How he had made it through Whiterun without the guard apprehending him, or at least dragging him to the Temple, was a mystery. How he had not simply curled up and died at the city gate was another.

 

“Focus Icebrain!” Aela had to shout to snap Farkas out of his trance. He had been holding him up with one arm, lowering his hood and gently brushing aside the stray strands of hair matted to his face by dirt and blood.

 

He seemed so happy that he was back for a brief moment, and then so lost now that he might lose him again.

 

Vilkas had a strong potion in his travel pack, already dug out and uncorked. He leaned his head back and poured it down his throat while his brother just cradled him, hoping it would go down the right way so he wouldn’t choke or drown. It was not necessarily a good thing that it went down with so little resistance, even the most grievously wounded would sputter just a little.

 

The potion did next to nothing, too many wounds open for so little alchemical magic.

 

“Get Tilma, no forget it. We need Pure-Spring and Jensson here five minutes ago.” Aela took charge of the situation. “Vilkas, you're the fastest here on foot and with word. Get to the Temple and convince them. We need healers.”

 

“On it.” Vilkas stood, considering if it was best to leave Farkas and having to make the choice anyway against his better judgement.

 

Aela tried to take Farkas hand away and got a look she had never seen from him before. He bared teeth, too sharp, eyes burning golden, a low growl in his throat. She had no time to be glad just how easily the wolf came to him, only that it would be the death of the Dragonborn if Farkas didn’t think it through with a human perspective.

 

Now was the hard part, convincing Farkas to let Adrian go. She could see it as plain as day in the way the big idiot was cradling him, like a starved pup guarding a fresh cut of meat, and that it was going to be difficult to separate them. She hoped if Adrian survived there would be important words, and that they would be by each others side.

 

She grabbed the nearest bottle, bit the cork off spitting it into the fire and downed the last quarter of whatever it had been. She was going to need a lot of liquid courage to get Ice-Brain to fall in line.

 


	12. Please

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A warning ahead: This chapter has sex in it. If that isn't quite your cup of tea only read until the first linebreak.

 

 

 

Adrian coughed himself awake, the sound rattling and distinctly wrong. Something inside burned when he did, his fingers finding the shape of his ribs outlined in vivid dark bruising. Even the gentlest of touches made him draw breath in a sharp hiss. There was something cloudy in his thoughts, poppy tincture if he had to guess, dulling the pain enough to keep him in a deep sleep to recover.

 

He flared a healing spell, barely a trickle of magicka left in his reserves, flooding the room with a wavering golden light for a few moments and doing little to sooth the pain. It illuminated the Companion on the floor next to his bed, a frown still deeply creasing his brow even in sleep. The other beds were empty, and he would find out much later Farkas had thrown the other Whelps a bag of gold and told them to find space in the towns various inns.

 

He smiled to himself, glad that Farkas was there.

 

Adrians other injuries had been bandaged and salved, the taste of something alchemical stuck to his tongue. It seemed Farkas had been giving him a few sips of a potion every hour or so but had fallen asleep at some point during his watch.

 

Glancing around his armour was nowhere to be found. He had suspected it was beyond repair, Alduin had managed to snatch him in one of his foot talons and dropped him from a considerable height. Something had gone 'crunch' when he landed, but he didn't have the luxury of checking just what until he was shouted back onto Tamriel just beyond the Whiterun walls.

 

He sat up in his bed, aware instantly that Farkas' heavy breathing stilled.

 

“How long was I out for?” Adrian asked, finding his voice hoarse.

 

Farkas took a moment to stand, slowly stretching out his shoulders before pulling up a chair.

 

“A day.” His tone was short, clipped, controlled. It made Adrian deeply uneasy.

 

“What's wrong?” Farkas clenched his teeth as if deeply insulted that Adrian didn’t know what he had done.

 

“I'm not good with words, but I've had plenty time to think.” Farkas steeled himself, not letting any of the feelings simmering under the surface boil over. “I had feelings for you, and I thought you cared about me in that way too. But you just ran away when we needed you.”

 

“I heard you, the night before I left. You woke me up. You said...”

 

“I know what I said.” Farkas interrupted him sharply. “I've been there for you every time you needed me. I was the Shield-Brother at your back, always. This time I needed you, and you were gone.”

 

“I had to...” Adrian tried to speak, Farkas raising his hand and gesturing for him to be silent the same way Vilkas typically would.

 

“The Companions are more than just a company of mercenaries. We're family. Skjor was your teacher, your friend, and you wouldn’t even stay to honour his name?” Farkas was baring his teeth now. “We didn’t even do the proper rites in the end, so what did it matter?”

 

“I'm...” Adrian paused, uncertain. He took a breath, ignoring the ache building in his side alongside the Thuum. “...I'm the Dragonborn.”

 

“That's the best lie you could come up with?” Farkas stood sharply from his chair, sending it skittering back. With heavy steps he turned to leave, clearly disgusted.

 

“ **Fus**.” The Word came out as more of a cough than a Shout, but it had just enough strength behind it to knock the empty flagon from the bedside table.

 

Farkas stilled, still facing away from him as the world rippled at its edges a sharp shade of blue, washing over him like a bracing wind off the Sea of Ghosts.

 

Adrian gasped in a breath, holding back a pained sound at the bloom of white hot pain down his side.

 

“I wasn’t supposed to wait. I came back to see you, and then Aela made me go on that stupid hunt with her. I was supposed to fight Alduin that day, and I didn’t.”

 

“You're the Dragonborn?” Farkas turned back, the anger that had been behind his every action now gone. He pulled the chair back and sat, looking at the ground with his hands clasped together.

 

“I didn’t mean to hurt you. I didn’t know if I was even coming back, and I thought it would be better if I didn’t tell you how I felt. I didn’t want to break your heart if I...” Adrian took a shaky breath. “...If I didn’t make it back to you.”

 

Adrian knew well enough that there was rules to travel between the Plains. Invitation and intention became solid things in the gap between worlds, too many doors only passable in a single direction. He had hoped that he would be able to leave Sovngarde, but had not expected it to be so. He had passed through the portal in Skuldafn fully prepared not to return even if he was victorious.

 

“How you felt?” Farkas spoke in a way softer than Adrian had ever heard from him.

 

“I have feelings for you too.” It was harder to confess than being the Dragonborn, but the actual words would not come. “I just didn’t want to hurt you.”

 

Farkas reached out and gently cradled his chin, lifted his head so they met eye to eye for the first time that night. When he kissed him it was gentle, soft, Adrian grabbing at the front of his tunic and holding on as if afraid he wasn’t really there.

 

“Sleep now, love.” Farkas gently reassured him, gently stroking his cheek with his thumb. “You need the rest.”

 

The last of Adrian's strength failed him and with it what little will he had keeping the haziness of the pain medicine away. He fell back into a deep sleep, unaware that he was being wrapped in a blanket and softly carried to better quarters.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Farkas snapped awake, aware that his bed was colder than it had been the entire night. Adrian was gone from his side, but a quick glance around the room showed that he had not only found his sword, but left it by the door with his boots and his travel pack. That put his fears to rest.

 

He lightly dozed for a while until he was stirred awake by the door opening. Adrian was wearing a loose tunic and trews, skin still slightly damp. The clothing was Farkas' and very clearly too big for him. His dark hair had been towelled and combed through, tied at the nape of his neck and loose from its braid. As his hair had grown longer he had been letting Aela and Skjor give him a traditional Nord braid, which with a few splashes of warpaint made him look like he could at least be related to a formidable warrior. Farkas could not deny that it had made him more attractive.

 

He closed the door behind himself, lifted the furs and climbed under, Farkas laying a hand on his chest only to have Adrian lift it up and put it somewhere slightly less bruised and raw.

 

“Sorry.” Farkas muttered, closing his eyes again.

 

“Its fine.” Adrian tried to lean over to give him a quick kiss to the cheek and succeeded only in making his injuries complain.

 

“You're hurt. I need to be careful.” He was gently pushed back down.

 

“I've seen you in far worse states, and nobody ever treats you so delicately.”

 

“You're right. You're a warrior, I shouldn't treat you like you're weak. You're not.” Farkas gave a short bark of a laugh, still with a smile on his lips.

 

“Thank you.”

 

“I still want to help, any way I can.”

 

“Any way?” Even in the dark Farkas could hear exactly what look he was getting.

 

Adrian moved with impressive speed, shedding a layer of bed linens and furs, knees straddling either side of his hips.

 

Farkas was being kissed before he could even open his mouth to suggest that while that sort of activity wasn't strictly on the list of things the healers told him Adrian shouldn’t have been doing it was likely pushing his luck.

 

He didn't see it happen, but he certainly felt the rumble pass through him as Adrian spoke ' **Yol** ' and every candle and lantern in the room burst alight. With Adrian so close he could almost experience it, the way he resonated with power and potential. The beast blood sang something unintelligent, a cocktail of confused sensations and instincts that he interpreted to be a positive.

 

“That's better.” Adrian was still sat across his lap, glad that Farkas slept without clothing.

 

Farkas had never felt self conscious of anything but his pride and skill as a warrior, but something near to it passed through him as Adrian just gave him a rather serene look, drinking in every detail, scar and mark across his body.

 

His embarrassment doubled when he realised that it was showing, his cheeks almost glowing. He was no blushing virgin, but none of his prior encounters had ever stopped to simply look at him with such clear affection. They typically just wanted to be taken quickly against the nearest available surface.

 

“You just going to gawk, or we doing something?” Farkas tried very hard to hide it, but Adrian had seen the blush on his cheeks and was grinning like a fool at it.

 

It was almost a relief when Adrian shed his borrowed tunic and leaned back down for a more languid kiss, taking barely a short breath before another, and another. His bandages had been removed, the wounds closed but still visible. Adrian had always lacked the scars of a warriors life, excluding the Dwemer dart puncture under his ribs, but it seemed likely that was going to change given how they were healing.

 

Adrian was quite entranced by the soft prickle of stubble against his face, perhaps distantly annoyed that he had been robbed of discovering just how much he enjoyed that feeling by a few too many clean shaven soldiers back in Evermore.

 

He was interrupted by Farkas insistently tugging at the waist of his trews, a sharp reminded that only one of them was naked and that that needed to change quickly.

 

Farkas' hands were delightfully rough as they ran up and down his side, a sharp breath reminding him to use a little care. He ran his palm down his hip and then up his thigh, slowly as if apologising, wrapping his hand around him and giving a few experimental strokes and getting a very contented noise in response.

 

He sank down, eyes closed blissfully, at least until he settled far enough to feel Farkas pressing up against him.

 

In the candlelight his eyes shone moonlight white, Farkas licking his suddenly very dry lip and finding just a little bit of sharpness in his teeth.

 

“Do you...?” Farkas tried to find the proper way to phrase the question, finding no appropriate way to ask. He might have been a man of few words, but those few words were usually confident and decisive. Adrian seemed to steal his ability to speak just with the warmth in his gaze.

 

“Do I what?” Adrian knew exactly what he was asking, at least from the smug look he was wearing.

 

Short of using vulgar hand motions Farkas had no appropriate response.

 

Adrian tried to answer confidently, and found that even naked with the man he adored awkwardly trying to ask him 'do you take dick?' that he couldn’t quite get over his propriety. Even with said dick only a hairs breadth away from a much too dry entry.

 

“I want to hear it. With certainty. Do you want to do this?” Farkas was deathly serious now, gently lifting Adrian up just enough that they were not so close to doing the deed that a single slipped inch would put them over that edge.

 

“Please.” The heat was gone behind his words as his shoulders slumped. Just a little of Adrians defences dropped, enough for Farkas to see. He was hurt, inside. Helgen, Skjor, Alduin and who knew how many other horrors were plain to see. He just wanted a moment to feel good after all he had seen and done. He needed the intimacy and the distraction.

 

“Easy love, I have you. You're safe with me.” He sat up with Adrian still straddling his lap, gently nuzzling at his throat and kissing along his jaw in a way he hoped was reassuring.

 

“Please.” Adrian stopped him, instead pressing a gentle kiss to his lips. “I just want to feel you.”

 

“Are you sure?”

 

“More than anything.”

 

“Fine. We're going to need some oil.” Farkas pointed to a bottle on the farthest shelf, small and unlabelled.

 

Adrian held out his hand, orange light dancing at his fingertips. The bottle Farkas had pointed to shot across the room, caught confidently. He had never seen Adrian use that spell so well. He supposed that all it took was a little positive motivation.

 

Adrian uncorked it, surprised to find it almost scentless.

 

It was stringy and thick, the most faint hint of magicka to it as he rubbed a drop of it between his fingers experimentally. It had been made with great care by a very competent alchemist.

 

“Don't need much. A palm full goes a long way.”

 

“I know what I'm doing.” Adrian just shook his head, taking the amount he was told and reaching round to slick him up. After a few strokes to be certain it was well spread he sank down, pausing right as it first pressed into him.

 

The feeling was warm and sharp and familiar, the discomfort reminding him that it had been far too long since he'd last done this.

 

Adrian drew a rattling breath, clearly less prepared than his bravado made him think he was.

 

“Relax.” Farkas was more than gentle with him, letting him move as he was ready. “I'm not the easiest to take.”

 

“And I'm not inexperienced at this. Just give me a moment.”

 

“Never said you were. But there's a difference between brave and foolish.”

 

“Calling me a fool?

 

“I've seen you walk blindly into danger delving a dungeon.”

 

“This isn’t delving a dungeon.”

 

“I could argue otherwise.” Farkas gave a pointed look downward with a wry smile.

 

Adrian again was caught without words, but not without a response. He regretted it instantly, but took Farkas all the way in with a single movement. It was worth it to hear the soft gasp, and see the way his pupils turned to pinpricks backed by the briefest moment a moonlight bright light.

 

“Definitely foolish.” Was all Farkas could say, letting his body fall back and resting his head back against the pillow as he felt Adrians heartbeat pulsing around him.

 

“It was worth it.”

 

“Was it?”

 

Adrian tried to answer 'yes', cut off by the shudder that ran through as Farkas rolled his hips.

 

“I didn’t quite catch that?” Farkas pulled out farther, pushing back with a little more force.

 

Adrian quickly gave up trying to form words as Farkas pulled in and out of him.

 

Farkas kept his pace slow, each roll of his hips gentle. He wasn’t focusing too much on his own pleasure, taking the odd moment to stop himself spilling over the edge when he tipped too close. He kept a slightly quicker pace with the hand around Adrian, Adrian rocking back and forth trying to quicken the pace. Each eager, impatient movement of his hips slid Farkas in and out, making it all the more difficult for him to keep his concentration.

 

“Farkas, please.” It should have sounded needy and desperate, instead it made something warm coil in his chest.

 

“Take it slow, love. Just feel.” Farkas was trying to be restrained in the face of the look of pure impatience Adrian shot him.

 

“Please, just a little more.” His breathing was ragged now, a bright flush of colour across his face.

 

“Fine.” He relented, upping his pace with both hand and thrust.

 

There was a moment where his breathing stilled and he tensed up. Adrian leaned his head back as if in prayer to Kyne, his climax neither loud or exuberant. Farkas took it as his signal to finish, his last few thrusts a little less gentle, sending a sudden wild jolt of pleasure through Adrian who was still riding out his own climax. Adrian gave a sharp inhale as his body clamped down around Farkas quite hard.

 

Farkas' own was more guttural, a growl that started low in his throat as he bared his teeth and gripped too tightly. He left a mark on Adrian's thigh with one hand, and with the other squeezed enough that it sent a sharp, delicious spike of pain through him that he had not expected and was most certainly not opposed to.

 

His seed was almost searing inside him, more so than what Adrian had expected. The wolf blood made everything in him and of him burn just a little hotter. It was not a bad sensation, the opposite was very much true, it was just an unusual surprise.

 

Farkas' eyes shot open, and just for a moment they glowed a dire yellow, the change rippling across the surface of his body. It was not long enough for the transformation to happen, but enough that Adrian felt the power just under the surface.

 

The air trembled, the slightest touch of the Hunting Grounds skimming the surface of the world. Adrian was almost certain if he opened his eyes they would be rutting like animals in an impossible forest. The idea sent more than a thrill through him.

 

The last few thrusts were almost feral, teeth bared and face contorted almost as if he wanted to snarl and howl but had to fight it back. Adrian was unsure how long it had been since Farkas had last finished himself off, but the amount he felt inside himself suggested it had been a good long while.

 

Adrian grabbed the tunic that had caught on the bedpost, wiping his face and dabbing under his eyes. He looked at Farkas, his smile a little sad, but sincere. His eyes were red and raw, tired. Farkas knew better than to ask, he just understood that Adrian had a lot to go through, grief and pain to be dealt with, conquered, summed up and left behind.

 

“You made quite a mess.” Farkas laugh was a little forced, an obvious attempt at distraction. He was looking down at the damp splashes adorning the line of thick dark hair that trailed down from chest to crotch. He found himself oddly proud to be marked in such a way, a badge of pride that he had brought pleasure to his love.

 

There was a little still glistening on his thumb, Adrian still held firmly in his grip. With a devilish look he milked it one last time for the last few drops, getting a shiver from overstrained nerves. He brought it to his lip and flicked his tongue over it in what he must have thought was a seductive way.

 

Adrian flinched away, eyes scrunching shut, unsure if he was aroused, disgusted or embarrassed. He made a meek noise, but couldn’t keep from laughing. He had flinched away just a moment too late, and now his mind was filled with images of Farkas tongue lapping and curling around something other than a semen dappled thumb.

 

Farkas, still inside him and still just aroused enough to keep it there, pulled him in and caught him by surprise. The kiss was fierce, clumsy and rushed, tongue and teeth. Adrian melted into it for a moment before recoiling, remembering just what had been on his tongue only a moment before.

 

He pulled a sour expression, Farkas letting a low belly laugh free. Adrian through squinted eyes gave him a look without any real malice behind it that clearly said 'you planned that' before leaning in and nipping a little harshly at his his earlobe. His breath hitched, and Adrian put aside that little discovery for a later time.

 

Farkas less than gently put his hand on his side, the injured one, and rolled him off of him back onto the bed.

 

There was a fairly high pitched yelp from the Dragonborn, both because of being manhandled and the suddenness of Farkas being withdrawn from inside him.

 

“Sleep now.” Farkas mumbled, curling up against Adrian.

 

“I love you.”

 

Farkas opened his eyes, looking at the back of Adrians head.

 

“Love you too.”

 

 

 

 

 

 


	13. Another Hungry Dragon

 

 

 

 

Adrian awoke too long after dawn in a bed considerably more comfortable than his own, draped in better linens than he was used to and wrapped in furs. It took a too long moment to realise where he was, vague recollections of being woken to take more of that awful poppy tincture filling the gap. His head felt wrong, his magicka distant and uncomfortably hard to grasp. He had to wonder just how injured he had been to need medicine strong enough to do that to him.

 

After a short while he realised that he was alone. The night before came back to him, a warmth rising in his chest and a smile on his lip. Farkas had been and gone a few times, checking up on him and leaving a goblet of water should he need it.

 

The pall of winter that had fallen had broken just as fast. The snow he had briefly seen the night prior when he went up into the hall to ask help from Tilma filling a bath had now turned to meltwater in the rivers and streams of the Hold.

 

He had awoken several times in the night, barely conscious, and not quite hearing it, not quite feeling it resonating inside his skull. Farkas stirred awake each time, his own rest always shallow and easily broken, stroking Adrian's hip gently thinking he had been awoken by the cold or a bad dream and hugging in closer to share their warmth.

 

The dragons had been talking across the skies, messages carried on Thuum across the heavens, from mountain to mountain, all outside mortal hearing. Their Words had consequences, the brief, sudden winter just one of the physical ripples of their indecision. Leaves freshly shed and still tinged green with their oranges and reds were blanketed under snow almost knee deep.

 

Adrian could almost understand what was happening, and he supposed it was their equivalent of a moot. Alduin had ruled them since before linear time was ever a consideration for them, and he was supposed to rule until the world itself returned to the void, but now they were leaderless. None would step up to the role, and none wanted to be without. He supposed that eventually Paarthurnax would be done biding his time and sweep in to impress upon them his own ways.

 

The teaching of the Greybeards had never sat quite right with him. To have the power to do good and choose to do nothing was something that made his insides twist with anger. There was a saying, buried in some book of philosophy he had read as a younger man;

'A mouse being tormented by a Khajiit will not thank you for choosing to do nothing to stop its pain'

And that had stuck with him. He had power, he had influence, and it was perhaps time to see what he could do to make the world a better place. There was too many mice under the claws of the Khajiit, all crying out for help. Adrian shook the thought from his head, realising what a weirdly racist turn it had taken. He had absolutely nothing against the Khajiit.

 

He dressed quickly, running a quick brush of healing magicka over his wounds. They were still too tender, but would likely need little more than a few days to be gone.

 

Adrian had forgotten many things in his addled state, his thoughts still a little loose and disjointed from the lingering traces of medicine.

 

The first was that his swordbelt and his sword were still on the floor of Farkas' quarters. That alone was a shameful thing, no true Companion was ever more than an arms reach of their weapon.

 

The second was that his own tunic was a very dark grey and Farkas' tunic was a rich blue with embroidered knotwork trimming. In his haste to get to breakfast without arousing suspicion he had picked up the wrong one, and was too dazzled to realise. He just knew that it was not his place to announce their relationship.

 

The last was that a good portion of the Companions had a supernaturally powerful sense of smell, and could most definitely smell Farkas on him. They had all been aware that Farkas had been tending to him in his injured state, but knew nothing of what had changed between them.

 

As he climbed the stairs into the main hall there was a series of exchanged looks, and then a dawning realisation. It started at a very smug Aela to a rather stern Vilkas who was trying very hard not to think about anything to do with his twins sexlife and the evidence of it trying very hard to invade his nose.

 

Above it all was Kodlak almost seriously wondering if the Bards College would take on a very late skald as a student so he wouldn’t have to deal with the lot of them any longer. The idea was perhaps a little too tempting.

 

It was Ria that made the connection first of those outside the Circle. She shot Athis a look, a nod and a gesture that was all eyebrows and innuendo. Athis frowned in confusion, looking between Adrian and her, trying to understand just what she was implying. It dawned on him like Azuras wisdom; a little too late and not wholly useful to his situation. He elbowed Torvar in the ribs in what he probably thought was a subtle way, startling him awake.

 

Torvar tried to figure out what was going on, the world still a little wobbly at the edges. Even hungover he could recognise that Farkas' chair was unusually empty and that Adrian was the kind of dishevelled distinct to rolling about in bed.

 

Njada found herself utterly unable to care who was fucking who, and really wished they would all put as much energy into honing their skills as they did with petty guild politics.

 

Adrian sat at the table, jaw clenched, fully aware that they all knew.

 

The silence was quite heavy, the scraping of cutlery suddenly very noticeable.

 

It was Tilma who broke it with an impish grin more at home in her wickedly misspent youth.

 

“You look like you've had quite some fun, dearie.” She pointed to the bite on the side of his neck, which would have been hidden by his high cut collar if he'd worn his own clothes that morning. “I was under the impression you were supposed to be resting after the scare you gave us.”

 

Adrian stood so fast the chair scraped across the ground with a shriek, grabbed his plate of food and fled.

 

He passed Farkas as he was returning from the market, trying to warn him with only his eyes not to approach the table and absolutely not getting the message across.

 

Farkas loved him dearly and was glad that they had resolved those feelings, but he knew full well that he would never quite understand some of the Bretons oddities. Eyebrow wiggling was not a language he would ever understand.

 

“What's up with him?” Farkas dropped into his usual chair and shovelled down a mouthful of thin cut meats and rye bread, utterly oblivious to why the Whelps were laughing so hard tears were forming in the corners of their eyes, and why Vilkas looked like he was chewing a wasp.

 

“Nothing you need mind I think.” Kodlak sighed.

 

Farkas simply shrugged, downing a whole flagon of water in one very long gulp.

 

He had noticed the tunic swap, but he had once heard that lovers would wear a favoured item of clothing, something with their scent or perfume to it, as a reminder of them to make the time apart pass sooner. He just assumed that Adrian was simply being sentimental.

 

He didn’t much appreciate Adrian's tunic, it clung to him like a sheen of sweat after a long run and would probably burst if he tensed too hard. He wasn’t quite certain how it was supposed to be a comfort in their absence, mostly it just itched around the collar.  
  


 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The rest of the whelps were out in the yard training, Adrian deciding to join them after dinner had been cleared away. There was no way in all eighteen of the Greater Plains of Oblivion he was going to face them down at the dining table another time. He had returned to bed, kept there by Farkas insistence that he rest because the Temple healers had told him to be certain he did, rising near sunset finally feeling that his mind was clear.

 

He had snuck out of bed once to get himself a snack, choking on his food after Aela made a passing comment both shockingly debauched and particularity accurate, made worse when it was suggested that bread wasn’t the only thing he had choked on recently. He had earned the luxury of a little cowardice for killing a dragon god.

 

He had long since learnt not to eat before training, just to drink as much water as he was about to sweat out. Skjor had once had them running laps around Jorrvaskr without rest or respite until they broke, or in Adrian's case he had thrown up his dangerously heavy breakfast over the edge of the city some time after about the seventyfifth lap. He had discovered to his horror that Tilmas spiced fruit bread only tasted good going in the intended direction. The smell of cinnamon and cloves still made his insides recoil.

 

Farkas was still sitting at the table, Vilkas on one side and Aela on the other. The way Vilkas instantly looked up at him with disbelief and accusation in his eyes cut right through him. There was only one thing they could have told him to get that reaction. He wasn’t sure if Vilkas was angry at not being told sooner, or disappointed that the legendary hero foretold in song and prophecy was the very same person he had laughed at while they were puking spiced bread over the city walls.

 

Adrian chose to just grab a goblet of water and flee into the yard before the tension became so heavy it could crush coal to diamonds, and the Dragonborn to a weak tongued pup.

 

What he hadn’t expected was Farkas to grab him as he reached for his drink. He wasn’t quite sure what had happened until afterwards, one moment he was leaning past him, the next he was spun about and found himself on Farkas lap with rough lips against his own, and then spun back upright and set on his way with a “g'morning love” and a smile.

 

Adrian stumbled twice, burning red hot in the face, took the whole pitcher of water and fled without a word from embarrassment for the third time in a little over a day.

 

Once out in the yard he downed the whole thing, getting a more than considerable portion down his front, before a bubbling, hiccoughing laugh got free. Farkas had kissed him in front of not only his brother, but Aela too. There would be no hiding it now, that single action an open declaration of their relationship. It wasn’t just a physical fling. There was feelings.

 

The rest of the Whelps already thought he had long lost his mind to the plains of the Madhouse, and thought shockingly little at the Breton drenched from neck to navel laughing like a fool. The air still had a strong bite of cold to it, thick dark clouds still blanketing the sky.

 

With that smile still plastered on his face that Sheogorath himself would approve of, between rosehip tea and cheese sandwiches, he strutted up to where they were gathered.

 

“You had a good night I think?” Athis gave him an appraising look, one of his delicate eyebrows raised inquisitively.

 

“What makes you say that?” Adrian tried and failed to keep the warmth he felt inside from spilling into his features. They would not get to him for a third time.

 

“The walls are not as thick as they look, and Dunmer ears are long.”

 

“You and Farkas. Really.” Ria was shaking her head, her words carrying with a biting tone. “Anything else you'd like to confess while you're here? I greatly appreciate your personal affairs interfering with our training time.”

 

They were avoiding the obvious. Adrian showing up on their doorstep soaked in blood and babbling of victory.

 

Adrian licked his lip, the opportunity just too good to pass. They were bound to find out eventually, better it be both on his own terms and knocking the rest of them down a peg or three. The guild could be trusted, they were as good as family.

 

“One little thing I forgot to mention. I'm the Dragonborn and just recently I defeated Alduin.” He spoke it so plainly it couldn’t be believed, and from the look he got in return none of them even humoured him for a moment.

 

“But seriously, can we get back on with...” Ria was cut off by the booming shout as Adrian craned his head upwards and loosed the words ' **Lok Vah Koor** ' into the clouds. They scattered and faded instantly, the sky now crisp and bright.

 

None of them had anything to say. They just stood, gaping like a trio of slaughterfish stranded in the deepest Alik'r as Adrian's smugness grew to a dangerous saturation.

 

It was Farkas who broke the silence, having come to investigate why every window in Whiterun had just rattled in their frames. He smiled at Adrian with a puppy like grin of amusement before stiffening his stance and barking his orders to the Whelps. He was going to be guiding their training today, and there was to be no rest, no mercy, until every last one of them had proved their worth to him.

 

Adrian was given no mercy either now that he had been deemed healthy enough to practice, not that he had really been expecting it, and was worked until he was gasping and wishing that he was just fighting the World Eater instead of this accursed training. By moons rise everything hurt again, his sword arm was so limp he hoped it might drop off and spare him dragging the dead weight around.

 

There was a vein of goodness in all of the suffering. He found himself in Farkas quarters afterwards, shirtless and near asleep on his bed, rough hands kneading and soothing every strain and sore until he was almost purring like a Khajiit.

 

Farkas would always push him to be his best, he knew that now and loved every moment, but he would also be there to help him recover, to pick him up from his failings and hold him to the standard.

 

The only flaw was that the standard was that of a mortal hero half remembered in songs, not the hungry dragon wearing a human guise.

 

Somewhere on Solstheim a dreaming cultist in a mask of white bone with spiral eyes saw flashes of a green sky and oceans of ink. And another order came from the other hungry dragon.

 

“ **Get his attention. Draw him to me**.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end of the first part, Adrians rise to meet his destiny.


	14. Solstheim Calls

 

 

Winter fell harshly and quickly. Adrian handled it about as well as a could be expected and was often found wrapped in so many layers and furs that he could easily be mistaken for a runt of a bear rather than a Breton.

 

They were supposed to be outside training, Adrian outright refusing to leave the hall after he had tried to open the door and found the snow piled knee high with more falling. Farkas had all but ordered him to draw his blade and practice with him, to which Adrian had opened the rear doors, taken a moment to consider and then slammed it shut.

 

Instead he was sitting at the main table reading a rather heavy looking tome on tonal theory and its relation to the earth bones, the list of jobs either waiting to be assigned or waiting for the assigned Companion to confirm completion being used as a bookmark.

 

Farkas was waiting by the door for some of the ones he had sent out to return. He was half heartedly cleaning his sword, entirely unnecessary having not seen use that day, and he was quite irritated at Adrian for it.

 

It had been a boon and benefit to discover that he was sharing more than just his bed, he now had a sparing partner he could rely upon to not wander too far away.

 

In the past it had been Aela that had taken that role, though she was not safe to spar against. She would forget the 'friendly' part a little too quickly and would always bite a little too deep with her blades, a fair few of his scars the product of her overzealous nature. Adrian had asked him once to explain every one, though Farkas had suspected at the time it was just a thin pretext for him to get intimately close. He was thankful for the slash dangerously high on his inner thigh, more so when Adrian had more than enthusiastically tasted it.

 

The memory rose in him, warmth and affection kept carefully hidden so that Adrian could not see it and wrongly assume had had been forgiven for denying him practice that day.

 

Vilkas too often was away in recent weeks. He had been making excursions over the border east to Morrowind and then back through Skyrim and out west into High Rock. Occasionally letters made there way back, often with trophies of exotic monsters he had slain.

 

The door burst open, Farkas looking up hoping it was one of the Whelps he had sent out. He frowned faintly when it was instead two of the new recruits that had somehow fallen under Adrians guidance.

 

Farkas had barely learned their names, and then only from Kodlak grumbling about the trouble they made. He knew that one went by Paladin, another Red, and two others who went by Breton names he could not recall.

 

Paladin typically did the talking for the group, with Red almost always in his shadow like a lovesick puppy. He appeared to be a seasoned Nord, with a distinct scar over his eye that could only have been made in battle, but he spoke like an highborn Imperial scholar. Farkas strongly suspected he had at one point been military of some kind. Legion possibly, though more likely Hold.

 

He made a brief report back to Adrian, confirming that everything they had been sent to kill was more than dead. Adrian just smiled and started to count out their pay, seeming small next to the man looming massively over all of them in his heavy armour.

 

The other two of their team had finally caught up, and were now busy fighting to get the door shut against the snow, chattering amongst themselves. They did not manage to get the door closed before a gust of wind blew out what little was left of the fire.

 

Farkas frowned at them, laying his sword down on the bench where he had been sitting, grabbing a stack of coal from a bucket by the rear door and hoping there was embers enough to relight the fire.

 

Adrian had handed the team the money they were owed out of his own pocket, intending to pay himself back from the safe when Aela gave him the key, telling them to go get some rest. Two went straight to the Whelp quarters, the rest taking their cut to the Bannered Mare.

 

He watched Farkas for a moment, trying not to be amused at his lack of success. He summoned a spell to his hand with a flicker of heat, fully intending to help him, before dismissing it with a sly look as he watched Farkas move the barely there embers about to little effect.

 

Tilma approached with a laden tray, Nirnroot tea faintly chiming from its pot. She poured Adrian a cup, and after a moment decided to pour one for herself instead of helping Farkas. It was best to let them quietly pine after each other until one of them broke.

 

“You need to get on your knees and blow it dearie, best way to get it going.” She said it a little too innocently.

 

“I'm certain I’ve heard that line before.” Adrian added, a smug smile on his lips.

 

Farkas just narrowed his eyes at both of them, not dignifying either of them with a response. He got down on his knees, not missing the way Adrian grew suddenly very still and very focused. He gently blew at the embers, which grew hot for a moment but not enough for the coal to catch.

 

After a few attempts Adrian finally decided it was time to help. He knelt next to him, gently pulling him back and giving him a brief kiss to the cheek before speaking ' **Yol** ' and casting the coal alight.

 

“Show-off.” Farkas grumbled.

 

Adrian just gently leaned in and kissed the half there frown away, the lightning taste of Thu'um and ash still just barely on his lips.

 

Farkas, still on his knees, grabbed the back of his head and showed him what a proper kiss was. Adrian put all of his weight into him, completely trusting, all too easily rendered soft and pliant. It was his undoing when Farkas pulled back the last inch with a sharp smile, turning his whole body so Adrian fell past him onto the floor with an undignified yelp.

 

He was considerably less impressed when Farkas stood up and stepped over him, taking his nirnroot tea from the table and downing it in a single gulp without even tasting it. He didn't even like tea all of that much despite Adrian's many futile attempts at finding a blend he liked.

 

Adrian couldn’t help but laugh when he hiccuped with a delightful, distinct chime.

 

Tilma picked up the tray with a shake of her head and a warm smile at the two idiots ready to tear the clothes from each other right on the floor of the main hall, leaving the pot of tea behind. She turned to take it away and froze, and instead of dropping it she immediately threw it at the armed intruders that had not been there only a moment ago.

 

Farkas was quick to his feet, reaching for his blade and finding he had left it across the room. Adrian must have seen this, as the recently reforged Wuuthraad moved through the air from its resting place with a sweep of his hand. Farkas caught it, uncertain if he should even be wielding it.

 

Adrian drew a spell, a tightly wound thing that seemed barely there, and swiped it over Tilma. With a smoky flash she was gone from sight.

 

“Run.” He said to the space where she was, hoping she knew well enough not to try her luck sticking a dagger into one of them.

 

Tilma was apparently a phenomenal aim with a tea tray. One of the intruders clutched at the shattered eyehole of their mask, the spiral cracking inwards into splinters and shards and doing something awful to their face beneath.

 

With a heavy swing Farkas split one of them from shoulder to crotch, tearing the axe free a little uneasily as he slammed the flat of his foot against them. The axe was heavier than his blade, and dug a considerable amount deeper on the downward. The body slammed into the wall with an uncomfortably wet noise.

 

Adrian struck twice; first with a blast of lightning that was caught by a sharply raised ward, and then with a shout of ' **Iiz** ' as they dropped it to return with a spell of their own. They fell sideways, struggling against the icy bonds as Farkas leapt toward them and the axe came down, splitting their head from their body.

 

The other two panicked, one fumbling to draw a crackling arc of magicka between their hands and the one with a shattered mask staggering toward the door.

 

Farkas had not been aware Adrian carried a knife in his boot. A flick of magicka drew it to his hand and a well aimed throw caught the mage in the throat before they could cast. They panicked, clutching at their neck without dismissing the spell and making their situation deadlier in a much shorter time. In each hand had been a lightning bolt that had temporarily found its home in their skull before earthing through them. The wood beneath their feet charred black before they crumpled to the ground limply.

 

The last one Farkas caught in the chest with the haft of Wuuthrad and all his weight behind it, sending them skidding across the floor to Adrian's feet.

 

The Dragonborn lifted him up by the collar and tore the mask from their face. Bright Dunmer red eyes flecked with black spots glared back at him in an almost feverish shock. They were bleeding from a great many points, the mask having shredded deeply into his cheek and around his eye socket.

 

Another swift motion of his wrist and a flicker of orange brought the knife back to his hand, pressing it right against his throat.

 

“Explain yourself. Quickly.” He turned the knife ever so slightly, just enough he was certain they could feel the razor burn against soft flesh.

 

“I have nothing to say to you, false Dragonborn. He will find you.” They spoke the words with shaking breath, not for fear but some kind of almost religious fervour.

 

Adrian faltered, knowing that he should have simply dragged the knife across his throat and be done with them and finding it more difficult to do than he imagined. The Dunmer looked at him like an alchemist searching their ingredients for impurities, making no effort to resist and clearly amused at the hesitation.

 

In one instant they were in his hands and at his mercy, the next the blade was touching only air. There was a sharp smell like sea brine and rotting paper that lingered for a short second.

 

Adrian bared his teeth, swearing under his breath. It was only when the walls trembled and reality folded away from him slightly he realised it had not been in Cyrodiilic.

 

Farkas approached slowly, careful of the fire behind his lovers eyes and the hungry trembling beneath his own skin.

 

There was a long moment where they looked at each other, the harshness melting from both of their expressions in different ways. Farkas let the snarl drop from his lip as he set Wuuthrad down, Adrian visibly letting the tension fall from his shoulders.

 

“Who taught you to throw knives? Farkas motioned to the knife, Adrian dropping it onto the table with a dull clatter.

 

“Athis.” He answered bluntly, pouring himself a cup of tea and taking a sip. Farkas followed suit with a Blackbriar, taking the cork out with his teeth.

 

“You did pretty well, love. Better than well.” Farkas took another sip, a half dozen of the Whelps pouring in from the quarters just as Aela charged in from the training yard expecting a fight.

 

“You were great too.” Adrian held up his cup as if for a toast. “To victory?”

 

“To victory.” He clinked his bottle against Adrian's cup. “Would probably sound better in Old Imperial.”

 

“Probably.”

 

Kodlak was the last to arrive, a few paces behind Aela and wondering just who would dare attack the hall in the short time he had been checking in on the Skyforge and Eorland. He found three bodies, a considerable mess, and two of the Circle leaning against the table having a drink while there was still the spray of blood warm against their skin.

 

Adrian turned the mask over in his hand, and gave it a long long. He almost recognised it, always just a little out of reach. There was plenty of times Nobody was there, forgotten too quickly with a flutter of illusion magic, but this time he had caught them before they could get away.

 

He knew he would need to pursue this. There was a feeling in the back of his mind, memories stolen and foreign to him telling him it was direly important.

 

A receipt stuffed in a pocket for passage on a ship from Solstheim to Windhelm was his first lead.

 

Kodlak would not say it aloud, but that place had history with their kind. Adrian knew it from the stories he had been told as a child by his uncles, that the Bloodmoon hunt had visited the island, and if the those stories were true then the veil between worlds had always been weaker there. It had once been called Souls Heim, the place of souls. It was somewhere best left alone.

 

Farkas knew that look all too well. There was a sternness to him, quiet and contemplative, that meant he was making a decision as the Dragonborn.

 

Adrian was going to pack his equipment and go after them.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgive the random burst of self indulgence, anybody who's read my other big fanfic might recognise it.


	15. He Is Waiting

 

 

 

 

He stopped to rest for a moment. It wasn’t the most comfortable place to sit, but he made the best of it.

 

The tower of books cast a shadow down on them, its peak lost in what he had thought at first were clouds.

 

The cloak of bear fur was soft, even against the cold stone floor, and would be enough for him to rest briefly and tend to his wounds. The Daedra there cast strange spells that cut like cold razors and left his flesh split and oddly bloodless. Healing spells fought to seal these almost wounds, an effort needed to close the damage before his movements tore them. He checked his blades for wear, finding little wrong with them within his skill to repair.

 

A more pious man would have been asking the Divines for guidance. A less pious man would be calling in any favours owed by the Daedra, excluding the one watching him from a sky made of eyes and tendrils. He had taken enough favours from that, quite literally, slimy bastard.

 

Instead he was taking a moment to think 'what would Farkas do?'

 

_'Stick a big weapon in them, repeatedly, until they stop moving.'_

 

With a crooked smile and a rising warmth he couldn’t help but think, and be glad, that it was also Farkas' solution to him. His smile faded quickly, and his heart grew heavy knowing it had been at least a month since he had kissed him on the steps of Jorrvaskr and promised to be home soon. He had taken several journeys through Oblivion since, and time had a way of slipping from him there, more and more with each visit it seemed. He had noticed on his last dive into Apocrypha that winter blizzards had turned to the chirping birds of spring in what had felt like a handful of hours.

 

He had been in the Library almost a day. There was no sun nor moons, but the sky had grown dark and then the dark grew thick and hungry. He had set a fire from what ruined books he could find, and raised his tent. The flames burned with only a little heat, oddly white and streaked with occasional words in a language he could not translate. He knew better than to try to catch them, never mind to read them. His curiosity had gotten the better of him once, and it had taken an effort of will to put the book down again. It still itched at the back of his head in a way he knew was not curiosity, but unnatural compulsion.

 

Through the night he had left a handful of soul gems set up in a circle; simple traps that would strike any who approached with lightning. The last one cast a faint light spell, the hungry dark kept away when the fire died until what passed for dawn came.

 

His sleep had been uneasy, the dreams too clear.

 

He had seen other realms in a clarity he had never achieved on Nirn, no Compact to slow their touch from slipping through the veil.

 

The roses of Her garden were stunning, their thorns so quicksilver sharp they painlessly drew blood when he tried to pick one. He had thought their petals ruby red until he saw his shredded palms.

 

The stars over New Sheoth had always been distant, but now they were spiralling constellations of pink and blue glittering and twinkling without pattern or reason, a cheese sandwich gently refused from a mildly offended host.

 

The Bloodmoon was beautiful through the trees, a circle of Companions come and gone howling their prayers to Hircine and wishing him the chance to feast upon the heart of a defeated dragon made man.

 

There had been an offer made for him to stay forever in a mist wreathed place where men beautiful and strong writhed and rutted like wild beasts. There had been one with brilliant blue eyes and dark hair that had stood sky clad and sweat slick, and they had almost gotten a 'yes', at least until he realised it was not his Farkas.

 

When he had awoke he felt only a little rested.

 

He took a tin of ash black paint, a Dunmeri recipe he had bought in Raven Rock but suitable enough for his needs. It was thicker than Farkas', almost gritty in texture and sweet in scent. He closed his eyes and applied it with more care than he had ever seen Farkas take. He wasn’t certain if he looked a fool, his only company was not one that would ever tell him. The dragon, bent to his will, was waiting to deliver him to the other Dragonborn at the highest peak of that impossibly tall summit. He had regretted asking, and now knowing that it was not only the highest peak in the realm, but the centre most point too. All of Apocrypha turned on that needle, its reality shaped by that mockery of a Tower.

 

Adrian had long since decided that he was going to destroy Miraak, and he was going to do it honouring his love by wearing the warpaint of the wolf brothers of Jorrvaskr. Farkas wore it to honour his father Jergen, Jergen had worn it to honour his father, and so on. It had been passed from parents, siblings, spouses and shield brothers across the ages, all stemming from a single moment where Ysgramor himself had dabbed ash onto the eyes of one of his most trusted companions and sent them forth to investigate the cursed forge the elven people shied away from.

 

Adrian had little idea of this, only that if he died it would be carrying a little of Farkas with him.

 

He packed his backpack back up, ready to shrug it aside when the fighting came. He wanted to be ready in all ways when he faced Miraak.

 

“Ready, thuri?” Sahrotaar craned his neck to the side, a single beady eye watching him as he climbed up onto his back and secured himself.

 

“As best I can be.”

 

“Then let us take flight. Nahkriin saraan lingrah.” With a beat of its wings they were up, heading to the summit of Apocrypha.

 

He couldn’t shake the feeling he was doing something monumentally stupid, that he was walking into his doom.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very short chapter, but the next one is only a handful of edits away from being ready.


	16. Salt, Ash, and Coal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contains some violence and death, about on par if maybe slightly less than 'too much, too little, too easily'.

 

The door to the hall was opened almost gingerly, carrying the cloying smell of dried flowers, thick incense and spring with it. The Circle all collectively took a shallow breath, whatever warding rite the Temple of Kyne was performing filling the city with smoke and scent.

 

A young Dunmer woman strolled in with pleasant half smile, appearing almost to be lost. She wore long robes of unusual cut even by Dunmeri standards, her arm sheathed in heavy chitin plating likely of Ashlander origins. She gave the hall a look of faint interest, distant and airy as if only half paying attention.

 

“Can I help you?” Farkas asked, getting up from his chair and jogging up to her, extending his hand in greeting and getting only a look of mild offence until he withdrew it with a frown.

 

“You're Farkas.” She tilted her head, giving him an appraising look up and down.

 

“That I am. I know you?” He noticed that her eyes were wrong. The red was dulled, almost brown, and speckled with uneven black blotches. The luminous glow typical of Mer eyes was nearly extinguished entirely.

 

“Aela, Ria, Torvar, Athis, Vilkas, Njada.” She named each Companion she saw as if checking them off a list.

 

“And Kodlak, Harbinger of the Companions.” Kodlak ascended the stairs from the Companions quarters, having heard her just on the edge of his sharpened senses.

 

“You're all here. Good.” Her lip curled up serenely.

 

“What business do you have with the Companions?” Kodlak approached with folded arms, patience already bare and thin.

 

“Revenge.” She said it plainly, a moment passing as all present thought she must have misspoken.

 

She lifted her hand, fingers outstretched, and raised a spell. Thin wisps of green coiled about her arm, fading like smoke from a dying fire. The air stilled, a distant, yawning, hungry emptiness filling the room just outside of normal perception.

 

The Silver Hand lurched into reality with a folding of portal magic. Barely a handful of them made it across battle ready. Some stumbled and strained as the liminal barrier fought against their passage. A small few came through screaming and lost, something precious and irreplaceable claimed by their transit. The last few unfortunates simply fell into the gap between Oblivion and the Mundus, either lost forever or waiting to be found by things not too kind to soft, tender, mortal souls.

 

The Dunmer was lightning fast, a thin dagger in one hand and a new spell in the other with a sweeping turn. Farkas managed to draw his own blade before being struck, his armour gouged by a swirl of invisible blades carried by a gust of force that threw him backward. Kodlak tried to arm himself as she glided under his guard with terrifying speed, so close she could have kissed him on the lips.

 

Kodlak made a pained sound as if the air had been punched from his chest.

 

Farkas let a low growl loose, holding back his desire to take the beast form and drive his teeth through the tender flesh of the Silver Hand. There was too many witnesses, too many Companions not of the Circle present. He held it back reluctantly.

 

He raised his blade in a guard as a Silver Hand staggered toward him in a daze, pushing back against a clumsy strike and setting his attacker off balance long enough to bring the blade around and cleave their arm off at the shoulder. The force of the strike sent them half way across the room, dead before they had even came to a halt in an unnatural tangle of limbs.

 

He took a step back, his foot hitting something. A cursory glance was all he could afford, and a cold worry spread through him when he caught the edge of familiar armour.

 

He clenched his jaw, his only thought 'Please, not Vilkas' as he launched himself toward another foe and parted their head from its proper place.

 

There was a shift in the hall, the air charged with energy and potential.

 

The Dunmer strolled through the fighting, carefully choosing her spot and shifting her feet as if aligning herself with some invisible plan. When finally satisfied she raised her hands, binding the forces to her will.

 

She began to burn with blue-white magicka, striking wind whipping about them. Torvar was the first to notice and tried to clear the distance with his sword drawn, and for his trouble thrown by a wave of force striking his head off a support pillar and landing limply.

 

Farkas looked up just in time to see what appeared to be another Dunmer at the front entrance. Their scent was strikingly rich over the blood, Red Mountain ash and salt spray from the Sea of Ghosts, with an undercurrent of damp paper and vellum.

 

Farkas didn't see quite how they had done it, one moment they had were taking a step back as if to run and leap, the next they slammed into the door at the back of the hall hard enough that they buckled the wood.

 

Their knife had sheared in half, the missing part thrown off with enough force to embed itself into the roof of the hall, but it had done its work and the spell shattered. The Dunmer brought her hand up to the burbling wound where her throat had been and gave it a cursory touch, a moment later simply crumpling to the floor.

 

With her death the tether that had allowed the Silver Hand to safely pass through Oblivion failed spectacularly, dragging the few left alive kicking and fighting back along the path they had ripped through the skin of the worlds. It did not appear a pleasant process, each of them snatched away by some force only they could see. The last one standing had scrambled away from it, tripping and flailing having witnessed it send his comrades back in pieces, the jaws of Oblivion snapping shut too soon with a ragged rend of flesh and bone.

 

They grabbed for the first weapon they could get their hands on, their own own meagre daggers dropped in sheer terror. Wuuthrad was useless in their hands, torn from its resting place, a few wild swings doing nothing to stop them from being twisted apart and dragged back across the veil. Ysgramor's axe was pulled through too, its enchantment putting up only a moment of resistance. Aela had tried to make a grab for it as it slipped past her fingers by barely a breath.

 

She swore as Oblivion swallowed it whole and spat in back out next to a very concerned cultist holding open a portal somewhere in Eastmarch.

 

The fight was now over, the magic that had made the city guards unable to hear the commotion finally breaking.

 

Farkas knelt at Kodlak's side, almost reverently touching the wound. The assassins dagger had slipped in through a gap covered only by soft leather. He pressed a finger to his lip, no breath, and then his throat, no pulse. With a start he realised that he had yet to see Vilkas, drawing a sharp breath through his nose and finding not even a hint of the scent of beast blood in the air.

 

The stranger who had intervened finally got to their feet, quickly checking they were in one piece. Something had cracked when they had been thrown aside by the magic, but it would heal given proper attention.

 

He approached Farkas, offering him a hand to help him stand. Farkas swatted it away.

 

The Companions looked between themselves, Athis deciding to be their voice in that moment. The stranger appeared Dunmeri from his armour, with the shalk shaped marking of House Redoran etched into a triangular crest chained to their bug shell pauldron.

 

“We appreciate your intervention sera, but if you are here to join the Companions I suggest you come another time.” Athis rather pointedly motioned out of the hall, perfectly polite but with a certain edge to it.

 

“Sera?” They scoffed. “Makes a change from you calling me an n'wah when you think I’m not listening.”

 

Adrian lifted the bug shell helmet up off his head, brushing his hair back behind his ears.

 

“You're back.” Farkas' voice cracked slightly, he wanted to be happy to see Adrian but could not find anything but the empty shock that always came with the fresh loss of one of his family.

 

Vilkas rose from tending to Torvar, marching over with his teeth bared. There was a sharp drawn breath from Farkas, relief stabbing through the numbness like the first touch of icy water in winter.

 

“Where were you? A minute sooner and this could have been stopped.” He shoved Adrian hard, the Dragonborn putting up no resistance. He pushed again, this time Adrian gently stopping him. Vilkas simply let his arm fall limp to his side, shoulders falling low.

 

“They were waiting. For me.” Adrian dropped the broken dagger onto the table, looking to Vilkas as if to apologise before deciding it wasn't worth the words without action to back them up. “She was at the gate, wanted me to know they were going to kill all of you. There was a barrier spell, they thought I couldn't crack it.”

 

Adrian knelt, turned the Dunmers body over. They were not Silver Hand, and he now knew the mask was that of Hermaeus Mora cultists that had been bent to Miraaks will.

 

He looked first at that mask, threaded through a belt loop much the same way he was wearing Miraak's own mask on his hip, then got a better look at her face.

 

There was a moment where he was certain her name was Avoni Modryn, and he thought her a fool from the first moment she had entered his service a decade prior in the fishing village of Khuul. With a confused blink the recollection slipped from his memory, leaving a disquieting sensation in its place.

 

“How'd you get through?” Farkas asked, almost mumbling it. He was sat now and prepared to stay that way until another took his place, keeping vigil over the body as was tradition. The Nord dead rarely rose as draugr much anymore but the practice of waiting to be sure still endured, and Farkas was as certain as he could be that his Harbinger would not see that fate.

 

“I can be very persuasive. I made one of them open it.” Adrian had killed all but one of the cultists guarding the city gate. He had broken the final one to his will with his newest Shout and forced them to lower the barrier. His final order to them was to make a noose out of their own belt and find something tall to swing from.

 

“Nevermind that. What do we do now? We have no Harbinger.” Vilkas looked to Kodlak for a moment, flinching away.

 

It was Aela that stepped forward.

 

“We do what we always do. Move forward.”

 

“With no Harbinger?”

 

“This isn’t the time to choose a new leader. We honour Kodlak's life, mourn the loss, and put his house in order.” Aela took a scrap of cloth from the table, laying it over his eyes with two septims. It was more typical of the Order of Arkay to do so, and Aela knew full well that Kodlak's soul was most certainly not in his domain, but she observed it anyway.

 

“I thought you'd dealt with the Silver Hand.” Vilkas looked up at Aela, eyes snapping conspiratorially to Farkas and Adrian so they knew exactly what incident he meant.

 

“We did.”

 

“Then what was...”

 

“They retreated to Solstheim.” Adrian cut in. “They were infiltrated by cultists, offered supplies and influence in exchange for loyalty. They've been working together for quite a long time. I killed their new leader on Solstheim.”

 

It had been a pack of native werewolves that had alerted him to the Silver Hand presence on Solstheim. They had thought him a werewolf too, at least until he approached closer. Farkas' scent had lingered on his clothes and skin, at least enough to fool them at first. Their alpha had realised the truth with a hearty laugh, welcoming him to their territory.

 

“ _Any who would willing rut with one of our own is as good as a packmate_.” Was exactly what had been said, and had left Adrian quite mortified.

 

Adrian had found what was left of the Silver Hand by chance in Miraak's temple, amongst their cultist allies. They were still licking their wounds and planning their return to Skyrim when he had torn through their numbers. He had put an end to every last one of them he could find, though he had suspected at least a handful of them had escaped.

 

“So this was revenge?”

 

“This attack was always coming, I just gave them a reason.” Adrian simply shrugged, not able to look away from Kodlak with a hauntingly familiar sensation in his chest. He had failed Skjor, now he had failed Kodlak.

 

Farkas reached up for his hand up from where he was sitting, a gentle squeeze bringing him back.

 

Adrian simply looked at him, blankly at first as if not quite seeing him before giving him a sad smile.

 

It was Tilma that took over. She knew all the proper ways to handle the body and ask the temple for their assistance. It was something she had had to do far too many times before.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

It was at the last few moments of light before sunset became night they held the funeral.

 

Clouds had lingered around the mountains and threatening to approach, promising rain or worse. A little under an hour before they had all scattered, Farkas and Adrian stood in the training yard with hand in hand proud that there would now be a beautiful aurora in the sky for Kodlaks farewell.

 

Aela placed her old bow, a gift given when he had brought her into the Circle. That was long before they had drifted apart. The Circle saw her true gift as she slipped it amongst the folds of his shroud, a bone scrimshaw bearing the horned mark of Hircine.

 

Athis, though not of the Circle, was allowed to present three tokens. There was a spiral of black glass, a stunningly faceted orange gem and a needle of ebony, laid upon his chest to form a triangle.

 

“Three guide you to where you're meant to be.” He spoke it quietly, a Dunmeri prayer perhaps not quite appropriate for a Nord, but at least well meant.

 

Adrian simply put the broken half of the blade that had killed his murderer in his hand. He had considered laying Miraak's mask there, something staying his decision.

 

Farkas placed a necklace of wolf teeth he had made around his neck, and Vilkas a copy of his favourite part of the Poetic Edda over his heart.

 

The Jarl presented a shield from his armoury. He had not spoken anything to Adrian, but there had been a moment where he had certainly recognised him, recognised that he stood with the Companions and knew what it meant. Adrian did not shy away from Balgruuf, now all too certain that his power and control over the Thuum was greater than any threat being known as Dragonborn might bring.

 

“Who will start?”

 

“I'll do it.” Aela stepped forward, taking a single coal from the edge of the Skyforge cool enough to bear touching. “Before the ancient flame...”

 

“...we grieve.” The Companions, bar Adrian who did not know the prayer, answered as one. Aela held out the coal, Eorland taking it.

 

“At this loss...” He gripped it tight, soot staining his fingers.

 

“We weep.”

 

“For the fallen...” Vilkas took it from Eorland.

 

Farkas placed his hand against Adrians back, giving him a pat to signal it was time. Vilkas placed the coal in his hand, looking to him expectantly.

 

“...we shout.”

 

It took Adrian a moment to understand what they were asking him to do.

 

“ **Yol**.” He spoke the Word, and there was fire raging as if it had always been there.

 

There was a moment, brief and barely there, where the world parted in the wake of his Shout. Oblivion reached up through the sliver of weakness he had torn in the natural laws of the world. Icy winds rushed down from mountain peaks not found anywhere in Skyrim, the scent of fear and blood and spice carrying with it. The flames grew tall and blue, raising into the shape of a great wolf beast. Kodlak bowed his head low to his Companions, something like a remorseful smile crossing his sharp teeth and long snout before he stalked off into the trees to join the rest of the Harbingers. Adrian blinked, and it had been as if it had never happened. He looked to the Companions uncertain if what he had seen was real, finding only the Circle were bowing their heads in return. Farkas subtly shook his head, a clear instruction not to breath a word of what he had witnessed to those who had not seen.

 

There was a heartbeat of almost quiet, just the crackle of wood burning.

 

“And for ourselves...” Farkas smiled thinly, proudly, at Adrian, taking the coal from his hands and throwing it back into the fire.

 

“We take our leave.” The Companions answered.

 

Adrian waited, watching the fire grow hot and fierce. There was magic to it, something else, different to the sharp edges and insistent clawing of Oblivion. His skin prickled as it rose and fell with the flicker and dance of the flame, oddly soothing.

 

The Jarl approached while he was entranced, snapping his attention to him with a loud cough.

 

“Dragonborn.” He spoke it very deliberately, almost as an accusation. Adrian should have flinched away, would have in months now gone, and instead found strength in the fact Farkas had been at his side the entire time.

 

Farkas took Adrian's hand, soot still staining his palm and before Adrian could ask what he was doing he had it on his fingers. Farkas gently daubing around his eyes with it, his touches feather light, until Adrian matched him. It was a clear statement.

 

“No, Companion.” Farkas stood tall and strong, making it certain that Adrian was one of them.

 

“Apparently so.” The Jarl conceded, something like a smile on his lips. There was too much opportunity behind his eyes, knowledge that the Dragonborns services to the Hold could now be bought and bartered like the rest of the Companions. Adrian knew, and had once feared, that it would happen eventually. Esberns warnings, the promise he had made to not let his power be bent or bartered for, were distant things now. There were few things left in the world that could compel him to act against his own interests.

 

Farkas lead him back to the hall, now a place of joy and celebration against all of the sadness. There was wine and mead, meat and cake, and most of all stories of Kodlak's glory to be told.

 

Against his better judgement Adrian drank. The Circle decided as one that Adrian was going to try every single mead they had until he found one he liked, and he could say ' _No_ ' to all but Farkas. Black-Briar was as bitter as Maven herself, and Honningbrew like chewing raw sugar. Markarth Bronze was too sour, Farkas losing himself in laughter at the face he had pulled. Adrian had laughed along too, unable to resist the rich ring of Farkas' laugh, at least until a hiccup carrying a little too much Thuum trembled the tables. It was Falkreath Rosy he finally settled on, Aela finding the smell offensively floral. Vilkas took a sip himself, commenting that it tasted like a hibiscus wine he had tried in Hammerfell.

 

It was earlier than the rest when Adrian chose to go to bed. The day had been long for almost all involved, longer for him with the travel, and far too short for Kodlak. He slept for barely an hour in the Whelp quarters before Farkas woke him up frowning.

 

“Wrong bed.”

 

“I thought you might want to sleep alone.” Adrian rolled over, swinging his legs over the side and propping himself vaguely upright.

 

“I've had months of sleeping alone.” Farkas grabbed Adrian's travel pack, slinging it over his shoulder. “No more. My bed is yours, always.”

 

“I love you.”

 

“Love you too.”

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It really made me so happy that people liked the '...monumentally stupid' line. I spent so much time wondering if I should keep it or not, and I'm glad I left it in.


	17. Twice Shy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Be forewarned; this chapter contains sexual content and blood.

 

Adrian closed his eyes, palms pressed to the bar top. He had to force himself not to tense, he knew it would hurt more if he kept tensing. Idly he thought it was not the first time he had been in such a position thinking such a thing, though he was sure there was no oil or salve that would ease the passage of tooth through flesh.

 

Farkas' hands were all over him. If he had known asking to be turned would light such a fire in him he might have considered it sooner. He had thought once that the forces inside him would be in conflict. Hermaeus Mora had proved that wrong.

 

“Focus.” Adrian had to bite his lip to keep a shiver from running through him, Farkas aroused and more than eagerly rubbing up against him. He wanted little more than to let him, but they had something considerably more pressing to do first.

 

He knew full well that at the last syllable of permission Farkas would be taking him up against the bar top, rough and hard, checking at every shaky breath and hitch of his throat that his love was doing fine, asking if he could continue. Each time he would get a nod, or a hoarse 'please', or a a lost, faraway smile that he knew was his affirmative.

 

A moment later Adrian unclenched his jaw, reminding himself again to not tense up.

 

“Let me enjoy the moment.” Farkas grumbled, lips tasting the side of his throat and stubble scratching at the hollow of his neck. Adrian had been the one to suggest it, and Farkas in his eagerness had almost torn the clothes from his back.

 

He could not be sure just why the Dragonborn had not only chosen to accept the Blood of Hircine, but asked for it specifically after having rejected it previously. Farkas found himself too distracted to question his motives.

 

“You can have me afterwards any way you'd like.” Adrian still had his eyes closed, the fear, anticipation and arousal making his heart soar in a way that only fighting for his life could match.

 

Farkas had explained it with unsure words, trying to put a feeling not quite the right shape for a human mind, nevermind human words, into a context Adrian could understand. He wanted to taste Adrian, and not in the way Adrian had silently suggested with a raised eyebrow and a shy smirk. It was a desire to sink his teeth into him and make him one of his packmates. Something about it made every fibre of his being yearn, it made him lust, and love, and want all at once, Adrian all too eager to let him take what he wanted.

 

“You ready then?” Farkas' hands came to rest gripping his hips in a way Adrian found pleasingly familiar.

 

“Yes.”

 

He tried not to dwell on it, but he could hear it, feel it, as Farkas changed. The hands on his hips became long, sharp at the tips in a way that always made him tingle with anticipation. The breath against the nape of his neck grew hot, and he knew if he pressed back against him he would feel Farkas burning up. He had once seen snow melt about him, flakes turned to water before they had even landed on his fur.

 

Some colder nights he had convinced Farkas to take beast form to share their bed, finding more warmth and comfort sleeping wrapped in arms that could tear a man asunder like cheap parchment than any sane person ought to. Farkas lustrous fur was certainly nice to rest against, though the rest of Circle could smell it clinging to him for days afterwards.

 

He felt a wide row of teeth close against his shoulder, just enough pressure applied that it felt more like prickles of sunburn than the maw of a great beast. He realised after a long few moments that Farkas was waiting for him to either change his mind or give him final consent.

 

Aela for all her talk of being true to Hircine chose a more civilised way of making new werewolves, blood and old magic guaranteeing the turn would take. All it really needed was teeth, and a willingness to let the beast in.

 

Adrian reached up, gently stroking along the side of his long muzzle, a soft growl rumbling from him in return.

 

“I trust you.” He pressed down against his snout just enough that the longest of those teeth broke the skin, and that was all Farkas needed.

 

He clamped down, hard, Adrian instantly going weak at the knees and having to catch himself. It hurt for a moment, then it seared like molten lead, the air suddenly alive with the smell of blood as his fingers dug into the wood and left ten sharp gouges.

 

He had imagined it would be like absorbing the soul of a dragon, the tightly knit weave of its experiences and memories coming undone and adding to his own, or the reading of a new Word and how they seared in his mind with such fury they blotted out all other thoughts.

 

Farkas was lapping at the wound with a wide tongue as greedily as a vampire would, even as he was pulling back into himself until he was in human form again.

 

Still with his mouth against the wound he pulled him close, already Adrian was as sweat slick and trembling entering the change as Farkas was exiting it.

 

Adrian turned in his hold, teeth sharp, eyes burning yellow. He grabbed him by the shoulders, and with surprising strength pushed him back and slammed him into the wall hard enough to leave a fair few bruises.

 

Farkas had the air knocked out of his lungs, barely managing to take a breath before he was pulled into a kiss with more ferocity Farkas had never felt before.

 

It was Adrian that broke the kiss with a bubbling laugh that sounded deeper than it had ever been before, lapping at his own blood still around Farkas' mouth between sharp kisses.

 

“Fuck me.” Adrian was never so bold, so forward, so unrestrained.

 

“Just wait.” Farkas had seen the beast blood take somewhat like this before.

 

Vilkas had gone first out of the brothers, and had somehow maintained his human shape even as it had clawed at the surface, his emotions throwing themselves violently from one extreme to the next as he scratched at the walls of the Underforge. Farkas going second had instead instantly and easily fell into the beast form, even then managing to keep his mind where others went feral.

 

“I don't want to wait. I want you.” Adrian's teeth were at his throat, needy and insistent. “Don't make me beg.”

 

His teeth were needle sharp, giving Farkas a surprise when he actually managed to nip hard enough to draw blood.

 

Something in the air stilled.

 

Adrian startled as if landing on his feet from a great height or waking from a nightmare, a look of pain and fear striking the soaring high clean from his expression. He doubled over, the glow in his eyes dulled but not returning to their true blue.

 

He staggered back a step before falling onto his knees, curling into a ball with a cry as the bite sealed shut. It knitted into a blotchy scar, fading quickly to milky pale, and then gone as if it had never happened. From out around it his veins seared black, spreading outward in a spiderweb like pattern, the blood somehow rejecting when only moments before it had taken so smoothly.

 

Farkas could not describe it afterwards, but he was sure in that moment he had felt liquid, thick and wrong, pouring into the room, flooding until he was wading knee deep in it. There was something circling angrily through the air around them, just slightly beyond what he could see.

 

Adrian looked up at Farkas, rage in his expression.

 

“You.” He bared his teeth, human again, and just in that sliver of a second his eyes were a shiny black.

 

Farkas flinched back, half his own reaction and half the beast recoiling from danger.

 

At first Farkas thought that rage was directed at him, it was only when he took a tentative step forward he realised that Adrian was looking through him at something else.

 

“Love?” Farkas knelt, a hand against his cheek. He hadn’t expected him to be as cold as deepest winter.

 

He got no response from either word or touch, as if he was only half there. Adrian seemed to be listening, head tilted slightly, his expression growing darker by the second.

 

“Of course not.” Adrian answered something else and then looked down at the ground, defeated.

 

Reality snapped back.

 

“Please.” Farkas was cradling his face in his hands, gently stroking his cheeks with the pad of his thumbs.

 

Adrian finally saw him, a sad smile taking him as he curled into the touch.

 

“I'm sorry.” He seemed little more than disappointed now, tired, a soft sigh escaping. “The beast blood won't take to me.”

 

Before Farkas could even ask what had happened there was a ripple of Words. **Tiid Klo Ul**. In the space between one moment and the next Adrian had vanished, taking his clothing and travel pack with him.

 

Farkas was left on the floor of his quarters, naked and alone, holding the space he had been only moments ago. Despite knowing full well that Adrian would return in a few days once his head was clear again he reached for the first of too many bottles of mead.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is one of my favourite chapters. It has all of the things I love in one place; gratuitous nudity, Daedric weirdness, werewolves, Farkas, sudden and violent shifts in tone, and sexual content.


	18. Split Mask

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is almost entirely smut. If this isn't what you are here for read up until the word 'Blackbriar' and then skip the rest. There is only a little plot relevant stuff in there. If you're here for all of that then there is bondage, biting, and other things of that nature.

 

 

 

 

 

  
Farkas found the Dragonborn in their quarters while searching for a sparing partner. The hall was otherwise abandoned, short of trying to pack Tilma into armour and hoping she wasn't as vicious with a knife as Farkas thought she was.

 

Technically they were in Farkas' quarters, but the double bed and the amount of trinkets that had found their way into the room marked it as both of theirs. His bed in the Whelp quarters had long been given away to another.

 

Adrian was sat at the bar, slouched forward awkwardly with his chin resting against the wood. It did not appear to be a comfortable position, and if his chair slipped even a handful of inches he would either crack his jaw or strike the floor with his skull.

 

He seemed to be staring into the empty eye sockets of that golden mask he had brought back from Solstheim some weeks ago, lost in his own contemplations.

 

The mask was propped up against an empty mug, looking altogether wrong in the way only old magic could. It was perhaps a trick of the flickering candlelight but he was certain he had seen eyes inside, dark ones that had turned to look at him as he approached. Farkas had awoken on some nights determined that it was watching him, turning it to face the wall before going back to sleep. Adrian had assured him more than once that it was not possessed by the spirit of its previous owner, that that person was more than dead. Farkas had asked him to elaborate what exactly he meant by that, and only gotten a rather unsettling smile in response.

 

“Love.” Farkas stooped low, wrapping his hands around his partners waist and pulling him flush against his front. “You're thinking too much, what troubles you?”

 

“Too many things.” Adrian leaned into the touch, the chair teetering back an alarming amount for a brief moment, but it was clear he was still staring at that accursed artefact.

 

“Can I help?”

 

“Dragonborn stuff.” There was a moment where he tensed, considering if it was worth opening up about it, even if only a little. “Its a bit of a philosophical question.”

 

“I'm not Vilkas, but I’ll be a soft whelp before I choose to not at least give it a try.”

 

“What point is too far? When do you say enough is enough when doing something bad for the greater good.”

 

“How bad?” Farkas already knew what he was going to answer, he was now more curious where the conversation was going.

 

“I killed someone for doing exactly this because I thought what they were wrong.” There was a stillness as he said it, regret completely unhidden as he stared yet more intently at the awful mask.

 

“I'd do it.”

 

“Why?”

 

“No different than the beast blood. We took Hircine's strength and used it to help people, your problem's pretty much the same. You're the Dragonborn, if you think it'll save a lot of people then it will. I trust you.”

 

Adrian stood, still being held by Farkas, and hooked his finger through the eyesockets of the mask. He slammed it down against the counter, leaving a rather nasty crack in the wood between the ten deep gouges his failed turning had left. They had not discussed that event, Adrian had simply returned and pretended it had never happened.

 

The mask was sheared in half with a shriek and a flash of purple-pink-blue flame, the flowery bitter taste-smell of magicka tingeing the air as the enchantment unwove and dispersed.

 

With a flourish he dropped it aside, the two halves now dull and plain.

 

“I think I needed to hear that from you.” He turned in the hold and pulled Farkas lower by the collar of his tunic, kissing him eagerly and hungrily. He pulled back slightly, pulling a slight face of disgust. “You've been drinking Blackbriar. I can taste it.”

 

“That I have.” He lifted Adrian by the hips, dropping him on the bar top. Adrian in response hooked his legs around him and pulled him close, mouth going straight for his throat to lick and bite.

 

“Are you drunk?”

 

“Of course not, can't even feel it.” Farkas had a phenomenal alcohol tolerance back when he was just mortal, even by Nord standards. The changes wrought by the blood had made it so he could probably drink Sanguine under the table and then go back for round two.

 

“Good. I want you.”

 

“I can tell.” Farkas felt him now hard through his clothing, grinding himself up against him to show just how eager he was in return. “How do you want to do this?”

 

“Whatever you want to do.”

 

“I want what you want.” Farkas was being selfless to the point of frustrating.

 

Adrian wanted to be annoyed but couldn’t quite find it in him to do so after Farkas made short work his belt, his trews and then his breechclothes with practices ease.

 

They were kissing again before he could even think to speak, Farkas wrapping his hand around him and stroking a little too fast and a little too hard.

 

“Tell me what you want, love.”

 

Adrian just made a noise that might have started as speech somewhere in his mind and gotten garbled by other more pressing things on its way to his mouth.

 

Farkas seemed quite satisfied by this, reaching up and grabbing ahold of the back of his head by a fistful of hair and turning his head to the side. The Dragonborn was completely pliant to his touch, almost melting against him when Farkas sank his teeth into the soft flesh between throat and shoulder hard enough to make sparks dance behind his eyes. He didn’t draw blood but the bruise was instant and vivid, sensitive as he lapped with his tongue hard against it.

 

He kissed the mark, and still with a harsh grip on his hair tilted his head back and exposed his throat. He pressed another kiss against his pulse, another against the apple of his throat and another just behind his ear.

 

Adrian opened his eyes, having taken complete leave of his senses.

 

“More, please.” It came out in a needy whine, something he would have found undignified if there wasn’t the complete sense that he could trust Farkas.

 

Farkas gently nipped and sucked at the opposite side to the other bite, apprehension shivering through him with every sharp, teasing scrape. He was going to drag this out, play with his willing prey for a little while.

 

Just as he felt Adrian relax he tugged harshly on his hair and sunk his teeth in, the hand gripping his erection clenched tightly in a way he knew must have danced on that fine line of pain and pleasure.

 

Without warning Farkas dropped him, no more clenched fist and sharp tooth.

 

Adrian's eyes shot open, pleading.

 

“Take off your clothes.” Farkas' voice was husky and gruff, the edge of the wolf making its presence known. It wasn't given as an order, but Adrian happily accepted it as one.

 

Adrian scrambled out of his tunic eagerly, wriggling out of his already lowered trews, naked and aroused under hungry eyes that had just the faintest flicker of the beast to them. There was pinpricks of golden fire to them, and his teeth were just a little sharper then they had been only minutes before.

 

Farkas stripped his own clothes slowly, folding each piece and setting them aside in a soldierly manner knowing full well that every second of delay was agony to the Dragonborn. He was being watched, the Dragonborn taking in everything about his naked form.

 

Nudity was a common, mostly unremarked thing amongst Nords, be it in summers heat, in hotsprings, or in cold rivers. The Breton’s by contrast were a terribly prudish people, their fashion layered to the point of impracticality and their society equally so. Farkas adored that he could light a fire in his lover with just a little exposed skin, even a flexed bicep with a suggestive smile was enough to halt his thoughts in their path and still that silver tongue. He had done that once before, Kodlak shooing him away because he was distracting Adrian from properly reporting how the job went.

 

Farkas could never quite understand it. He knew it worked, and in theory he knew why, but it made little sense that it could have such a striking effect.

 

Stood naked, even doing something as mundane as wrapping the straps for his vambrace up, to Adrian he was a work of art begging to be touched and tasted. What he saw was the movement and interplay of muscle and sinew, the barely contained strength and power he exuded. He saw dark hair across chest, arms and legs threaded by intricate patterns of scars both silvery and old, red, ragged and new, all proclaiming his prowess as a great warrior. Most of all it was intimate, a taboo thing so casually flaunted before him that he knew he could have.

 

“Tell me what you want.” Farkas leaned forward until their foreheads were pressed together and the honey bitter sweet alcohol on his breath could be tasted.

 

“You.”

 

“I know that.” Farkas snorted. “I’m yours, anything you want you just have to say it. Anything.”

 

Adrian swallowed heavily, suddenly very aware of himself.

 

“Anything?”

 

“You won't know until you ask.”

 

“I want to...” Adrian stopped, turning a very bright colour under such intense scrutiny. Farkas must have understood, burying his head against his neck and sucking at that bright bitten bruise just enough to make him pliant again. It seemed that desire would always win out against shame when given just the right encouragement.

 

“Was it something you fantasised about? Back when you thought I didn’t want you? Because I do want you.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Explain it.”

 

“I wanted you to tie my hands and put me on my knees, I want you to have complete control.” Adrian swallowed again, their nerves winning out.

 

“And?” His heart was thundering in his chest, the blood rushing so fast it could be heard.

 

“I wanted you to tell me how much you love me, how good I’m doing. I wanted to hear how much you want me.”

 

“And?” Farkas could sense there was more, there was still tension running through him.

 

“And I wanted to taste you.”

 

“That it?”

 

“It is.”

 

“Then turn around and put your hands together.” Farkas kept a cery serious front, but it made his heart beat that much faster to see the barely held back joy in his love.

 

There was strip of material, leathery but textured like dragonskin still barely attached to that horrible golden mask. Farkas tore it free, running it through his hand to check there was nothing sharp or hard that might do harm.

 

He tied Adrian's hands, using the same knots he would normally use when his orders where to bring a lawbreaker to face the Jarls justice. He was careful that the knots were tight enough to bind, but not enough to stop blood and feeling.

 

“Does this feel right, love?”

 

“Perfect.”

 

“You sure about this?”

 

“I’m sure.” Adrian turned, leaning back against the bar top.

 

“Even with your history? Helgen?” Farkas didn’t expect the soft smile he got.

 

“In Helgen I had control taken from me, to harm me. You are not taking it, I am giving it willingly.” The look is his eyes was wild, lust had long since broken his will and he had no intention of pulling back.

 

“Kneel.” Farkas could see the shift in the Dragonborn, that moment of complete surrender where he put his fate in the hands of another and just chose to enjoy the ride down.

 

The stone floor was freezing against his legs, a shiver running through him only half from the cold.

 

Farkas gently cupped his face, running his thumb lovingly against his cheek as their gaze met. Adrian gave one last nod before Farkas pressed the tip of his erection against his lip.

 

Adrian was quick to action, licking and sucking eagerly, wearing quickly against Farkas intention to drag it out.

 

He leaned in taking a few more inches, Farkas pulling back and digging his nails into his scalp just enough to be a warning. Adrian would get exactly as much as he was given.

 

He looked up, clearly frustrated that he was being denied and equally aroused by it.

 

Farkas gave a short bark of a laugh.

 

If Adrian wanted it all he could have it.

 

Without warning his grabbed his head with both hands and slid all the way in until Adrian's nose was pressed into thick curly hair.

 

He would have sputtered if there was space for air to pass, all of his will focused on not choking instead.

 

With a sharp thrust he was out and in again, repeating at a measured rhythm that left just enough time for Adrian to draw shallow breath.

 

At some point Adrian just lost himself to the feeling, eyes shutting as all the tension left his body. All that mattered in the world was making Farkas feel good.

 

There was gentle stream of reassurances and affirmations, never more than a few breaths apart each, very much at odds with the roughness Adrian had very much requested and was very much enjoying. Each little encouragement seemed to make him all the more eager, all the more determined.

 

Farkas' thrust became less tempered, his pulse quickening and his breath became heavy. He slowed a little, cupping Adrians cheek and lifting his head.

 

“Look at me love.”

 

Adrian opened his eyes, conscious thought coming back to him like rising out of a deep sleep, and he was clearly annoyed at being interrupted.

 

“I'm at the edge. Is this definitely what you want?” Farkas voice was gruffer than usual, husky and low as his breathing became heavy and beads of sweat trickled down his chest.

 

Adrian nodded, letting his eyes roll shut and getting right back to what he was doing.

 

Farkas' last handful of thrusts were short and hard, his grip on his head tight. He gritted his teeth and grunted as he finished, muttering 'I love you' over and over, bucking so hard he was sure he had hurt Adrian.

 

When the last waves of pleasure passed and he pulled out Adrian just coughed once to get his voice back.

 

After a moment of almost quiet, only the rushing of their heartbeats and heavy breathing for company, Adrian finally spoke with a grin as wide and bright as the dawn.

 

“Thank you.”

 

“My pleasure, love.”

 

“Could you untie m...” Adrian let the word trail off, tilting his head as if listening. He closed his eyes, brow furrowing in deep concentration. With an irritated huff he turned ever so slightly as if looking for something on the horizon, even through the foundations of Jorrvaskr and closed eye lids. He was looking toward High Wrothgar.

 

That deep concentration was broken by Farkas picking him up and depositing him back on the bar top.

 

He gave Farkas an oddly harsh look, sat up severe and proper as if he were entirely in charge of the situation even naked, tied and hard in Farkas' hand.

 

His smile was thin, a tongue ran over his teeth in a way Farkas thought with an excited shiver was altogether too hungry.

 

“I was doing something.” The Dragonborn was oddly still, tone flatter than usual. Farkas was certain that his arms would be folded sternly if he wasn’t bound.

 

“Hear a Dragon?” Farkas leaned in, pressing their foreheads together as if it would let him hear the things only he could.

 

“Maybe.”

 

“Want me to stop?”

 

“No.” There was no hesitation in his answer.

 

“If it isn't burning Whiterun down we can deal with it later.”

 

“I suppose so.” His stance relaxed, smile returning much softer as he fought not to buck up into his rough motions.

 

“You worry too much. Worse than Vilkas.” Farkas muttered, pressing slow kisses along his jaw.

 

“Your brother is the last thing you should be thinking of in this situation.” Adrian almost got out a laugh before instead yelping as Farkas gripped very tightly and bit him harshly on the ear in the same moment.

 

Adrian tried and failed not to whimper. Farkas nuzzled into his neck, licking and sucking at a familiar spot that would likely be a permanent bruise if not for restoration magic.

 

“Farkas.” If he wasn't already spent the needy way Adrian spoke his name would have lit a fire in him in an instant.

 

The moment came, Adrian tensed up and Farkas bared his teeth and bit down right on that sweet spot. He could feel his pulse, sharp and fast, the urge to bite down hard enough to draw blood always present and always resisted. Adrian trusted him to do no harm beyond what he had requested.

 

The feeling was lightning harsh and danced in just the right way, the edge of good and bad that Farkas had become more that practiced at bringing him to.

 

He tried to thrust upwards, a single harsh push keeping him pinned to the bar top and entirely under Farkas' control. Ever single second, every shiver of pleasure, and harsh movement was at Farkas discretion.

 

Farkas kept him held down, still using that too harsh grip even after his climax was finished and he had become incredibly over sensitive.

 

Adrian was biting his lip now, shaking as each movement sent a shock up through over strained nerves.

 

When Farkas decided he had had enough he slowed to a complete stop and took a moment to admire his work. With great care he reached around him, certain he had gotten a secure hold and slid him off the bar top so that he balanced against him, knowing full well that after a climax like that he would be shaky on his feet for about a half minute.

 

“Should we go deal with that Dragon now?” Farkas asked quite conversationally for a man splattered with fluids and holding a sexually exhausted hero of myth.

 

“Nope.” Adrian managed to draw enough strength to stand up on his own. “Already gone.”

 

“You sure?”

 

Adrian rolled his eyes, holding his breath and turning his head again to listen.

 

“Long gone.” he shrugged after a long moment of silence.

 

“Good. We have a job in the morning when Aela gets back.” They were the last two in the hall, not counting Tilma and Brill. The Whelps, the old set Adrian had risen from and the many newer recruits were all off on training exercises. The Circle fully expected the number of new recruits to fall fairly soon, weeding out those without honour or potential from the true talent. They were long out of bed space, even fitting too many more beds into the Whelp quarters and adding bunks to what had once been Skjors room.

 

“We should go to the 'Mare for food. No point having Tilma make us something when everyone else is out on jobs.”

 

“Seems fair. We should wash up first though.” Farkas turned to find at least a set of trews to throw on so that he could get a bucket of clean water and a wash rag.

 

“Forgotten something?” Adrian wiggled his elbows out like a chicken, unable to do much else.

 

“Oh, that.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

For what felt like the first time in too long the bards at the Bannered Mare were not playing 'The Dragonborn Comes' over and over again. It was only a small mercy, 'Ragnar the Red' was barely any better.

 

 

 

 

 


	19. Cracked Stone

  
  


Adrian had been unusually excited the whole journey, even ignoring the apprehensive stares as he dragged Farkas through the market. Both secrets had gotten out somehow, their courtship and his status as Dragonborn.

 

Now that it was known that the Dragonborn was both Thane and of the Companions Circle had done wonders for the Guild and the Hold alike.Work came easily with the reputation, so much so that they had the luxury of being selective with their contracts, but as an unfortunate side effect every bard was now singing his praises. It was only in the last few days had it seemed to stop. Perhaps because the upcoming meeting up at Dragonsreach had everyone on edge. Stormcloaks and Imperials in one city was a recipe for chaos, under one roof was tempting fate.

 

 

Aela and Vilkas both had taken to giving Farkas very pointed looks whenever a bard sang 'our hero claims a warriors heart'.

 

It was nowhere near as bad as Adrian leaning in at 'the Dragonborn comes' and whispering “I will be later” while Farkas tried to keep a straight face. It had been the third or fourth time he had made that joke did he realise just how sharp werewolf hearing could be, the look Vilkas had given him across the Bannered Mare enough to freeze solid the blood of a lesser man.

 

Farkas knew that Adrian was obliged to attend whatever meeting was due to happen, and that he was under strict orders from the Jarl to not leave the city under any circumstance.

 

That was why they were sneaking out of the city. Through the main gate. In broad daylight. At a leisurely pace.

 

He couldn't be certain quite how he had done it, but there was a ripple of blue and a terribly subtle rumble of Thuum, all the guards simply looking through them as if they were not there. Farkas would have thought them drunk or moon sugared up to the eyeballs if Adrian wasn’t being smug about it.

 

Disobeying a direct order from the Jarl was most definitely a crime, but he was easily persuaded otherwise when they briefly stopped at the Honningbrew Meadery and picked up a few bottles of one of their good reserves. That first taste of sweet honey was all the bribe he needed.

 

Farkas thought better of suggesting he would have to drag the Dragonborn back to town in shackles to face justice, knowing full well Adrian would be out of his armour, on his knees and tying his own hands with that fiery look in his eyes before he had even finished speaking. He would never begrudge his love their hard won confidence, but sometimes he wondered just where the timid Breton who couldn't even look at him naked without nearly choking on his own breath had gone.

 

“This is it.” Adrian ran up the last few worn steps and between a barely standing arch. There had once been a structure there, probably Nedic given how little was left.

 

“A standing stone?” Farkas had seen many, and had once even managed to get one of them to impart its blessing on him for a time.

 

“The Ritual.” Adrian took one of his gloves off with his teeth, tucking it into his belt. Almost reverently he laid his hand on the stone, thin wisps of blue light flowing back and forth between his skin and the surface.

 

The constellation lit up in the shape of an eye, Adrian pulling back before it could drink the blessing he already carried dry and feed its own power into the gap left.

 

“Any reason we're here? Nice spot for a picnic, but not much else.”

 

“Watch this.” He licked his lip, taking a deep breath that tasted of lightning and magicka as he took a step back.

 

Farkas knew well enough that the stones were old magic, from back when mages were wise seers who honoured the gods with offerings of bone and blood just as any warrior would. They drew power from the stars and gave it to only those worthy in the eyes of the Aedra, at least according to the stories Vilkas had read to him when they were only pups.

 

He didn’t even hear the Shout. He only felt it resonate through him as if his flesh was the metal of a bell struck too harshly by a hammer. The wolf inside screamed and tore, the transformation pushing outward and demanding they run from the danger. Farkas had never felt the beast cower before, the change halted and failed as the pressure bore down on them mind, body and spirit. Its drive and instinct fled so deeply into his soul it left him feeling like he had never accepted the blood of Hircine.

 

He could not be certain if he had staggered backwards or been thrown by a wave of force.

 

The Ritual Stone trembled, cracks splitting along the marks of the constellation as pale starlight blue poured out in delicate wisps. Farkas didn’t even realise he had fallen to his knees until the gravel began to cut into his clenched fist. He ground his teeth and tried to yell at the Dragonborn to stop whatever thing he had set in motion.

 

Reality rippled and bled, shimmering like the surface of a green-black ocean disturbed by howling winds.

 

Farkas managed to raise his head, his vision blurred so badly he though that there was two of Adrian stood almost side by side, edges blending together.

 

The Dragonborn turned with an accomplished grin that faded sharply.

 

If he had shouted his name Farkas did not hear, only that the power wanted something from him and needed him to agree. Try as hard as he could he could not deny it, only stall as it asked again with more force. He wanted to give into it and at the same time he knew without a doubt that he could not, would not and should not let it in. The beast never spoke with words, but it made itself clear from wherever it had secreted itself that they were in danger.

 

His senses had dulled, barely noticing Adrian shaking him in the vain hope it might snap him out of it.

 

Adrian fumbled for a solution, drawing breath desperately and hoping it would work. It was only a single syllable; spoken rather than shouted, still with some considerable power behind it.

 

“ **Dii**.”

 

Instantly the magic retreated as if scorned. Farkas drew a breath of relief. Where there had been wind as strong as a storm and a grinding sound that filled his hearing there was now just a gentle breeze and a dull ringing in his ear.

 

Adrian almost choked, overwhelmed by the rush of feeling. Intimate. Too intimate. Something crossing and blending, stopped only by his force of will snapping away from it.

 

The feeling of danger was still near, like the tingle of the air before lightning, like a hound denied its chance to sink teeth into the preys throat by the command of its master.

 

Farkas blinked heavily, looking up at the cloudless sky with a growing sense of vertigo.

 

The Ritual Stone bled sickly green vapour that swirling thickly through the air, tendrils of light grasping and reaching out for Adrian. He dared to look for a moment and found it unpleasant.

  
“Farkas?” Adrian was on his knees, a hand against his shoulder shaking him. “Say something.”

 

“That was awful.” Grumbling he tried to stand and found his legs wobblier than Tilmas last attempt to make one of the fancy Breton desserts Adrian missed from his youth. The ground would do him just fine for a while.

 

“I'm sorry.”

 

“Head hurts.”

 

“I have something for that.”

 

Adrian drew a healing spell, the magicka bleeding from pale gold to a diseased green as that light seemed determined to hold him like a lost child reaching for its mother.

 

He shivered, tearing away from its grasp as he dismissed the spell and called it again with a clench of his fist. The strands broke and dissolved, coiling back around The Ritual Stone as if scorned. This time it made no attempt to reach for him and the healing remained golden.

 

He took his hand, twinning their fingers together and let the spell flow freely. He ran his fingertips up Farkas' forearm slowly, carefully, a shiver running through both of them. Farkas could feel the Bretons delicate touches through armour and vambrace as if he wore nothing at all.

 

He ran his palm down his chest, savouring it as he ran a hand down his thigh and back up along his hip, much how he would when they were naked and entwined. Adrian would would say sweet, poetic things about how beautiful and perfect Farkas was, and Farkas in response would gruffly laugh at his attempts to court him like a highborn nobles daughter and then show him the Nord way of expressing their love with hands and lips and tooth and claw.

 

By this point Farkas had closed his eyes and let his head fall to the side, letting out a contented 'hmm' as he left his throat vulnerable and exposed, even the Beast inside trusting him completely as they felt the warmth of the spell and the softness of his palm as he swallowed. The ground was uncommonly comfortable.

 

Adrian finally cupped his cheek, asking him a question and getting no response. It was only when Farkas failed to respond after being asked again did Adrian realise that everything was still not quite right.

 

“ **Dur Neh Viir** ”  
  


 

 


	20. Silver and Scent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mildly sexual themes after the first line break, mild by comparison to the other chapters but still present.

 

 

 

Farkas' dislike for surprises was tempered only by his trust in the Dragonborn.

 

Surprises tended to end badly, usually for the person that had startled him. That was how they had discovered it was actually possible to partially shift to beast form and back in only a moment. Farkas had quite literally torn the face off a bandit with his sharp claws during a particularly tough job, though he had never been able to make it happen again.

 

Adrian had taken him by the arm and dragged him up to the Skyforge, Farkas dragging his heels just enough to make him have to pull and strain. He quite liked the look of mild irritation, and liked it more when he could shift it with a single gentle touch of their lips.

 

Eorland was waiting for them, looking quite pleased with himself. He had his hands behind his back, gently humming 'The Dragonborn Comes' to himself. It seemed to Farkas sharp hearing that every tavern between Windhelm and Falkreath sang that song over and over again, and every person he passed in the street was carrying the tune.

 

Farkas had not seen Eorland so at ease in quite some time, at least not since the disappearance of his son. Now that he thought about it Fralia had been in good spirits too when Adrian had dragged him down to the market to show what gift he had gotten Vilkas. Adrian had gone out of his way for their birthday, or at least the day they celebrated it on, their true day of birth long lost so they took the day they had been brought into the Companions instead.

 

Vilkas' gift had been a ring of carved dragonbone based on one Adrian himself had come across in his adventures. Farkas had not asked just how he had acquired the original, but when he had showed it to Aela her eyes had gone wide. He didn't ask if it was what he thought it was, but the way the beast blood trembled in its presence made it more than obvious. Fralia had copied the design wonderfully, though she had a few small issues with not being allowed to touch the original ring even with gloves on.

 

Adrian made a dramatic sweeping motion past Eorland, signalling Farkas to step forward. Eorland stood aside with a smug look of pride at his creation, revealing a long box of plain wood.

 

Cautiously Farkas approached, heart in his throat. When he opened it his breath caught, his jaw falling open. It was beautiful.

 

He thought it was ebony at first, the colour just slightly too silvery to be that. He discovered later when Eorland told him the story of a less than easy forging that it was some kind of ebony-skyforged steel-silver mix that had to be precise down to the droplet. There were several failed attempts that had shattered like ice before they had gotten it quite right.

 

He lifted it almost reverently, finding a matching bandolier and sheathing loop beneath.

 

“Do you like it?” Adrian was almost vibrating with excitement.

 

“I love it, but I can't.” Farkas gently laid it back down in the box.

 

“Can't?”

 

“How much did you spend on this?”

 

“More than I probably should have, and quite a lot less than it was worth.”

 

“The Dragonborn did my family a great service, my time was the least I could pay them back with.” Eorland added.

 

“I'm not short on money right now, in fact I can practically magic up money now.”

 

“Magic? I dread to ask.”

 

“I'll show you.” Adrian lifted a buckle off the side of the forge, one obviously bent beyond use. He dropped it in Farkas' hand, just so he could see there was nothing odd about it.

 

Farkas turned it over a few times, humouring him more than a little.

 

Adrian took it back and clenched it in a fist, coiling a green spell in his other hand and sweeping the buckle through it. When he opened his hand it had shrank and pitted somewhat, the surface now shiny.

 

Farkas went to pick it up, snapping his fingers back when it had seared red hot to his touch.

 

“Pure Silver.” Eorland laughed, shaking his head. Even the slightest impurity would be enough to make it safe to touch in human shape. “Heard about that spell, Empire and Dominion outlawed it, had every trace of it destroyed. No idea how he got ahold of it, but I wont say no to being able to buy up bad iron and getting good silver out of it. Fralia is delighted with it.”

 

“If you've got money to burn then why stay with the Companions? Why not buy a big house in Solitude and retire?”

 

“Because I don't want to.” Adrian stood on the tips of his toes and planted a kiss to the side of his mouth. “I want to fight by your side, now and always. We have a lot of wrongs in the world to put right.”

 

“Hopeless romantic.” Farkas spoke it like an insult even while wrapping his arms around his waist.

 

“I love you too.”

 

“I swear if you two start rutting on my workfloor I'm skinning you both and making a matching set of belts with your hides.”

 

Adrian rolled his eyes, gently pushing Farkas back and reminding him that his gift required his attention more than he did.

 

Farkas strapped up his new bandolier, dropped the sword into the loop and jogged a few tentative steps on the spot to get a feel for the weight. It felt quite right.

 

Adrian was grinning like a lovesick idiot the whole time he was putting it on, and was laughing like a fool when Farkas scooped him up in a bridal hold and carried him all the way back to their quarters.

 

Eorland muttered to himself about the pair of them, the seasoned Companions simply chose to pretend they weren't there and the new bundle of Whelps watching and gossiping amongst themselves as they passed.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Farkas snapped awake, finding Adrian had risen moments before and had tried to get out of bed without waking him.

 

He made a soft 'hmm' to let Adrian know he was awake and watching, getting a startle from him and a brief scramble as he tried to grab something to cover himself with and realised it was futile.

 

He turned back to the shelves, partly to hide the warmth rising in him at the way Farkas simply looked at him.

 

Farkas was more than happy with that, realising that his nails were perhaps a little too sharp when he saw the criss cross marks down his back and across his rear.

 

He slowly rose, rolling his shoulders with a crack and pop of muscle, finding himself with nothing to do after their nap. He reached for his lute, aware that it had been too long since he had last dedicated time to it. He strummed a few notes and put it immediately back down with a frown. It had been the opening of 'The Dragonborn Comes' that had reached his fingers without ever asking his head what it was meant to be. He was almost tired of that song.

 

Something floral and musky hit him, cutting through Adrian’s ashy scent and that undertone of salt water and old paper that still clung to him.

 

“Love, could you not wear that?” Farkas snorted to get the smell out of his nose, his whole face wrinkling like a puppy licking a particularly bitter lemon.

 

“Sorry, I forgot. Strong smells.” Adrian corked the bottle, putting it back on the shelf. Nothing he wore would hide Farkas' scent from the others. There was always a knowing look from them, no matter how well put together he was, no matter how well he hid the evidence of their fun.

 

“Not many of the Companions wear scents or perfumes, even outside the Circle. Doesn't suit our lifestyle.”

 

“And you don't particularly need it. Being werewolves.” Adrian motioned broadly, Farkas looking at him like he had just sprouted horns.

 

“I'm not following.”

 

“I did some reading. Werewolf musk used to be a popular perfume amongst the nobility. Supposedly it warded against werewolf attacks, and was a fairly potent aphrodisiac as well as smelling good.”

 

“Used to be? What happened?”

 

“It only repelled other packs, it attracted packmates. There was also the impracticality of...” Adrian coughed heavily, turning away from Farkas, the stony faced prudish Breton now so rare to see taking over “... _milking_ the werewolves.”

 

Farkas moved from where he was sat on the bed and pressed himself right against Adrian, hands gripping roughly at his hips and pulling them flush together.

 

“I can think of one werewolf who is more than happy to be _milked_.” He said it right against his ear, voice already husky, pushing until Adrian was almost bent over backward across the counter top. He loved feeling the full body shiver that ran through him.

 

If Adrian had a witty retort it didn’t make it to his mouth, sharp teeth against the back of his neck stealing his breath away.

 

Farkas could already feel the arousal rising again, tinged by those other urges that were only half his.

 

If Adrian had been wearing clothes he would want to tear them straight from his body and sink his teeth into his soft flesh until he tasted blood, and given how eagerly Adrian seemed to push the boundaries he would probably let him and then ask for another.

 

With the way Adrian was grinding his rear against him he wouldn’t be all in control very soon, there would just be growls and the harsh rhythm of their rutting. Again.

 

Adrian seemed to stiffen, drawing a breath too deeply.

 

“ **Feim**.”

 

Farkas stumbled forward through him, catching himself against the bar top. He turned just in time to see Adrian drawing a second deep breath.

 

“ **Fo Krah**.” It should have hit him like the force of a warhammer and the chill of deepest winter. Instead it was like being dropped naked into a frozen lake; no pain, only shock. Shouts passed him harmlessly since the incident at the Ritual Stone, Adrian awkwardly admitting that it was because he had used a Thuum to 'mark' him as his. Farkas had to wonder if it was a spiritual wedding band or a cattle brand on his soul.

 

He was still mildly irritated that Adrian had summoned a Dragon to get him back to Jorrvaskr. Not only had he been out cold for his first Dragon ride but he had missed Vilkas' face seeing them fly in. Adrian had gotten in quite some trouble for it, an armed escort taking him to Dragonsreach to face the Jarl and in no uncertain terms being told that their commands were not something to be disregarded, that when he was ordered to stay for a political meeting he himself had pushed for that he ought to stay. Also that Dragons were not to be brought into the city unless under dire circumstances.

 

Farkas yelped, the sound embarrassingly high pitched.

 

“What was that for?” He clutched his arms against his chest to try warming up, rushing for the warmth of the furs on his bed.

 

“We don't have the time.” Adrian was rolling his eyes and trying very hard to will away the erection before Farkas decided to try again.

 

“Saying you don't want me?” Farkas put on a mock look of hurt, ruined entirely by the fact he was scowling from out under the sabrecat pelt draped over his head.

 

“I want you more than words can express. But we'd never leave this room if I didn’t stop you once in a while. Gods know I'd ride you from dusk till dawn and do it all again when we woke up if there was nothing else in the world that needed us.” Adrian had to take a deep breath of warning at the wide, proud grin Farkas wore hearing those words, and the way he tried to close the gap between them again.

 

Adrian leaned forward and gave him the barest touch of lips, gently pushing him back with a palm pressed firmly against his chest.

 

“I love you.” Farkas breathed it almost silently. “But don't Shout at me like that. I'm cold now.”

 

“And I love you too.” Adrian smiled just a little dangerously.

 

“We should get dressed, they're going to wonder where we are.”

 

The Companions were less concerned about them arriving slightly late to dinner and more with the fact that the hall had trembled slightly because somebody had unleashed the power of the Thuum in a confined space.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The two parts of this chapter were originally the latter half of a chapter that grew too large and a standalone that never felt big enough to stand on its own. Rather than waste them I rewrote them to work together. That's why they are almost entirely fluff and only a little sliver of plot. 
> 
> I originally had mirrored chapters between the first and second parts, but that's fallen apart somewhat now that I've shuffled the order around and merged a few together and split others. 
> 
> 'Silver and Scent' was supposed to be the mirror for 'Perfume' and 'Gold'.
> 
> 'Twice Shy' was supposed to match 'Dwemer', and back when 'Split Mask' and 'Cracked Stone' were one chapter they matched 'A Storm Yet to Take Shape'. 
> 
> If/when i give this another editing pass, once its all posted likely, I might try to clean up the mirroring to work better.


	21. Let Slip the Dogs of War

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A warning for violence and some mild gore. Nothing more than some earlier chapters have used.

 

The Silver Hand had all but fallen. The Circle had moved through their base with an efficiency matched only by their ferocity. No mercy was given, no corner left unchecked. Adrian had allowed a handful of them the chance to escape once before, months ago in the deepest reaches of somewhere half Solstheim half Oblivion. Never again.

 

Even if he had wanted to show mercy Aela certainly didn’t. She was beside herself with the the bloodlust, quietly savouring every last drop of her much anticipated revenge.

 

Vilkas for once was not acting as the voice of clarity. His sword had tasted blood and he wasn’t going to claw himself back from it.

 

Only Farkas kept deathly calm, still a wild and terrifying thing but remaining perfectly anchored to himself and the beast. His new sword held an edge like none other he had ever wielded, cleaving through armour and bone without effort.

 

It had taken weeks of tracking to find them, false starts and false leads frustrating them. It was Vilkas that had caught the scent, lead by a proud boast in a backwater tavern in Eastmarch of one of the silver Hands younger recruits. He had bragged that they still possessed Wuuthrad, stolen from right under the Guild noses. For his bravado he disappeared in the dead of night, his weapons, travel pack and armour left suspiciously behind.

 

Aela had wanted to tear the secret from him one thin strip at a time. Adrian needed only a Word to force him to confess everything he knew.

 

What they expected to find in the deepest chambers was their leader, cowering and soon to be torn apart by a ravenous pack of beasts. What they found was the an almost empty chamber that tingled with freshly cast magic.

 

The archway was white marble, pitted with age. There was green-blue glass embedded along its length, faintly luminous and lustrous, the reflection in it of somewhere else. The arch had cracked, crudely repaired with dark stone and bronze stained green, all too familiar to Adrian from Miraak's shrines on Solstheim.

 

The air moved, disturbed by the eddies and currents just below the surface of the world.

 

Adrian reached out carefully, the reality between the arch thin and frail. Freshly wounded. He knew the feeling too well.

 

It would only need a slight push to form a portal.

 

The spell came to his hand easily. The magic of liminal tunnelling was something he had studied for decades in the depths of Apocrypha; from the works of the psijic Iachesis on transpositioning locations, to the portal theories of the ancient witch queen Valerica of Falkenheim.

 

Adrian stood tall, a vain half smile turning his lip as the portal ignited blue and white. He reached for his mask, finding an empty gap at his hip with a sharp stab of irritation. A moment later his stance fell back to relaxed, recollections not quite his slipping back into the depths of his mind uneasily.

 

He stepped through, ignoring the warnings from the others, the moment between entry and exit too long.

 

The portal was less than stable, the edges of its path through the world raw and wounded, bleeding into Oblivion. He had seen a split second of scintillating lights of every colour, woven together in a tight knit like scale-maille armour. It had hurt to look at, still searing his eyes as he staggered out into a vaulted ruin of white stone and crystal glass.

 

Farkas was next through, too impatient to wait for confirmation it was safe and too impatient to kill whatever was on the other side that might do harm to his love if it wasn't. He staggered through more confidently, a quick glance through the burning after images confirming they were safe.

 

The air was heavy with dust that caught the light strangely, tasting like the steam from a freshly quenched blade at the Skyforge with each drawn breath.

 

Vilkas and Aela came through together, nobody having waited for any kind of signal. Kodlak would have called them all foolhardy. If Kodlak was still alive there would be no need for the hunt.

 

The portal strained, flickering like a candle at the end of its wick until it failed.

 

“Any idea where we are?” Farkas sniffed the air, catching absolutely no scent of anything.

 

“Not Skyrim I'd wager.” Aela added, kneeling to check the preys footprints left in the grey grit and sand coating the floor. “Any ideas Dragonborn?”

 

“None.” Adrian tried not to pull a face at being called Dragonborn.

 

“I thought you were the smart one?” Vilkas scoffed. He had recognised the architecture from his ventures into Cyrodiil and chose to remain silent.

 

“Nothing here is familiar to me.” It was not completely true, something in the back of his head felt like he should recognise it.

 

“We can save the archaeology for later. We are here to hunt.” Aela took off at a run, Farkas and Vilkas right after her.

 

Adrian managed to keep up with them, finally able to match them for speed after more than a year of trailing behind.

 

He was almost proud of himself, held back by the fact Farkas and Vilkas were doing the same in considerably heavier armour.

 

“Catch.” Aela shouted, Adrian catching the first three and nearly fumbling the last. They were the latch pins holding her clothing together. With her belt loosened she shed her human form, clothes hanging loosely from her waist like a kilt. Adrian tucked them into an open pouch for when she would need of them later.

 

Vilkas sped up to keep pace with her, unwilling to shed the precision of his sword swings for the strength of the beast.

 

Adrian cursed to himself, now completely outmatched. They barrelled down a tall hallway, turning a corner at a cross section.

 

He couldn’t say what it was that had warned him, but the light glinting off of it caught his attention and demanded to be noticed. He had skidded to a halt, scattering a small cloud of dust. There was a wrought work door, possibly aged bronze by the patina coating it, leading to a row of cells.

 

Farkas turned on his heel and went back for him, stopping at his side as he tried to prise the gateway open and put a hand on his shoulder. He gave Adrian a gentle brush of knuckles against his cheek as a quiet assurance, silently saying he intended to go ahead without him and asking if that was fine. Farkas didn’t think to ask what he was doing, just to be certain he wasn't needed.

 

Adrian gently leaned into the touch with a kiss to the back of his hand without once taking his eyes off of his lockpicks, a silent affirmative to go on without him. A moment later Farkas was gone, his gait ready to fall forward onto faster paws if his pack needed him to catch up. His teeth were bared, already sharp.

 

The door opened, needing Adrian to put his weight against it to shift and chip the centuries of rust in its hinges away.

 

He cast a magelight, the weak glow from the welkynd stones washed away and replaced with the dazzling shimmer and glitter of dust in the air.

 

He picked a cell at random, pushing it open.

 

The floor was gouged, claws marks that Adrian knew intimately. There was many, decades worth if he had to guess. Each cell was the same. And each one had a massive skeleton tethered by collar and chain to the wall.

 

He wondered for a moment how such a frail thing could shackle a werewolf so easily that it would starve to death rather than break free. A flicker of a spell later confirmed no magic or malign force animating the bones, no risk that it might rise up and strike.

 

The collar was inscribed with 'By the Light of Merid-Nunda' in Ayleidoon, the metal dull and tarnished, so ancient he had to run his finger along the marks to be certain what they said.

 

He picked up the skull from one of the werewolves, reverently, a small prayer to Hircine on his lips that he had once heard Aela recite. The collar fell away, landing in shiny sand so deep he had sank up to his ankles in it. His thumb brushed the side of its snout much how he would to Farkas in his beast form. The dust coating it rubbed off easily, revealing perfectly preserved bone beneath. With horror he realised his thumb was now lustrous and bright, and worse that the air was heavy with it.

 

He dropped the skull and ran, hoping to catch them in time.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The Dunmer raised both his hands, orange light at his palms. He clapped them together, and with it the heavy stone doors slammed shut just in time for Aela to reach them, tearing at them with claws and frustration.

 

With Wuuthrad still strapped to his back he continued to run.

 

Aela wedged her claws into the thin gap between the doors and pulled them apart, the mechanism inside shearing and screeching, weights and counterweights snapping from their positions.

 

Adrian caught up a moment too late as they charged the room, forced to follow them in. It was darker than it should have been, tingling with fresh magic.

 

He couldn’t see the Dunmer at first, and neither could the rest of the Companions.

 

There was Nobody in the room, the darkness at its edge too thick, wrong to his eyes. He felt his perception shift, the gap in the illusion now obvious to his eyes. The spell failed to take ahold, unravelling around them.

 

The Dunmer was fleeing across the expanse, now with Aela closing in on him.

 

Adrian tried to call to them, his words caught in the last strands of the illusion. He was too late, the darkness dispersed and the silver plated trellis fell on the only entrance to the arena.

 

Above them in the great vaulted roof two domes of glass set amongst thousands of twinkling welkynd stones shone, illuminating the amphitheatre. One was red, larger than its smaller twin of pale grey.

 

Pillars circled the inner arena facing the audience stands, more wolf bones shackled to them. He could see them out the corner of his eye, the ghosts of old events repeating again and again. Werewolves, shackled as both beast and man, naked and afraid, snarling and snapping at their Ayleid tormentors.

 

It was Farkas that reacted first. The change surged without his control but could not take, his skin searing and blotting as if sprayed with boiling water. He tried to speak, the air in his throat now scorching and acidic.

 

“Vilkas.” It had been either a cry for help or one of concern, his brother choking on the silver dust too as the false moons forced him to almost change.

 

Aela managed to charge half the length of the arena before faltering, her strength gone as she crumpled to a stop. Her form shifted unnaturally, the beast forced into an almost retreat.

 

At first Adrian thought that the Dunmer had only set a trap for the werewolves in the Circle, confidence rising as he readied a sharp breath to call an ally to his side.

 

The trapped wolf spirits in the room all began to thrash against their bonds, screaming and fighting against a force of daedric magic, glittering and radiant, that moved like a wind of gemstones under candlelight. There was generations beyond count of trapped spirits, their pain and anger and sorrow and fear bleeding out as force and feeling.

 

Adrian bit down as it grew loud in his head, like the screech of a blade across a whetstone right next to his ear. He though he was managing, at least until the world grew indistinct. He realised through the pain that it was not the world, it was his eyes struggling to focus.

 

He took a step and found his body growing heavy and uncoordinated. He staggered over his own limbs, falling sideways without anyone to catch him, the Words released without power behind it.

 

“ _ **D**_ _ **ur Nah Viir.**_ ” He had reached for Oblivion, for the Soul Cairn, and found it distant.

 

The powers of the Coloured Rooms and the Hunting Grounds tore at the skin on the world in near open conflict. Adrian tried to raise a hand and draw a spell, finding the magicka simply too chaotic to control in the maelstrom.

 

A pain shot through his side in the wound Farkas had once cared for, the memory of a tonal vibration now coiling energy for its return. He knew that soon the old wound would open, as fresh as the day that Dwemer dart had caught him. He cursed the Dwemer and their strange science-magic.

 

As he tried to stand the long faded crescent of bite marks on his shoulder split, the pain almost striking him blind and coiling him into a ball as the Hunting Ground reached for an old hold it had never truly taken, one that it might use to strengthen itself in the fight.

 

He fought to not throw up, knowing that if he could not unclamp his jaw then he would drown in it. He tried to breath and found the air too heavy to draw in.

 

He finally managed to draw a breath and got little for it but a mouth half full of silver dust.

 

He managed to push his face up out of the sand, slumping forward as his strength failed him completely.

 

Adrians focus returned abruptly, flowing into him like thick black ink, the room now as silent as a library and just as peaceful. He could see Farkas in his peripheral vision, gasping and reaching for him, and gave him no mind, no concern.

 

The Dunmer approached confidently, his boots crunching in the silver dust like it was fresh powder snow. He leaned in close, smug in his victory until Adrian sprung up and buried the dagger he kept hidden in his boot straps straight into his belly.

 

“Dramus Marvayn.” Adrian spoke the name, felt him in his stolen memories, in the little grains of truth that had been slowly revealing themselves to him since Apocrypha. Once a Spellwright of House Telvanni, at least until he delved too deeply in search of the Infinite Library and fell to Miraak.

 

His hand coiled a spell, green and sharp edged Alteration, bending a truly frightening amount of magicka borrowed from elsewhere to his will. With a simple release the air changed, what had once been shining silver was now glittering gold.

 

He twisted the blade carefully, precisely, wrapping his now free hand around the Dunmers throat and squeezing with surprising strength. The last thing Dramus Marvayn saw was the familiar black of the Dragonborn's eyes. He has seen it only in feverish dreams of his Lord in the Library, that exact same disinterested look on his face.

 

Adrian continued to grip ever tighter until something crunched between his fingers with a choked gasp, drawing his dagger up until it hit his ribs, spilling his insides onto the floor.

 

“Miraak.”

 

With a harsh shove he cast him aside, no real satisfaction to it.

 

“ **Fus**.” He almost spat the word, crunching the Dunmer into the ground and contorting his body into unnatural angles just to be certain he was dead.

 

Lightning coiled heavily around his hands, two simple flicks cracking the false moons above and ending their hold over the werewolves. The Ayleid magic, Meridias magic, sputtered and failed, and with it the rioting forces of Oblivion just beyond sight stilled.

 

The beast spirits bowed in thanks as they slipped into the Hunting Grounds while the veil was still thin.

 

He turned slowly, feeling a moment of irritation as he saw the Circle still brought low, at least now able to breath.

 

It hit him hard, instantly, that Farkas was in danger.

 

Farkas was on his back, a rattling fit of coughs wracking him as his spine arched upwards. He reached with both hands, sharp nails gripping around his armour, tearing it from his body with a snapping of release bolts. The change came roughly, Adrian on his knees at his side pouring in golden healing magic.

 

He surged almost to full beast form before falling back, able to breath a little more clearly.

 

The cold air was a delight against his naked body, but savoured for only a short moment.

 

He turned, looking right at a worry stricken Adrian too lost in reliving a bad day trying to stop it repeating.

 

Adrian could still feel the blood, dead and thick, coating his hands as he tried to put Skjor back together.

 

With a tired hand Farkas reached out, threading their fingers together gently, grounding, familiar, and squeezed hard.

 

“Love.” Adrian snapped back to his senses, following where Farkas was looking with such undisguised concern. “My brother.”

 

“Promise me you're fine.”

 

“I'll live. Go.” Though not technically a lie, he was not fine by a great measure. What mattered was that he would live to not be fine for a few days, then get right back to work.

 

Vilkas was in better condition, though not by much. He was deathly still but very much alive and awake, just staring at the ceiling in a daze as his blood calmed and the high of battle left him. These were the times when both brothers grew philosophical, each contemplative in their own way.

 

Aela was last, stalking across the arena. Whatever witty comment Adrian had ready for her, all but naked and breath still ragged from exertion, was silenced by a single look. She held out her hand with little room for patience, taking her four clasps back and putting her clothing back in order. With a tin of warpaint she reapplied her markings, taking a moment to be sure she was presentable for what she was about to do.

 

She wrapped her hand around the hilt of Vilkas' sword, pausing for permission.

 

“May I?”

 

“Go right ahead.” Vilkas leaned up slightly, the blade slipping its sheath a little easier for it.

 

Aela approached the Dunmer, his eyes still frozen in a look of dawning realisation. With a muttered prayer to the God of the hunter and the hunted she took his head as a trophy. When they got it the Underforge she would stuff it with herbs and burn it as an offering. She took Wuuthrad from his back, its edge still splashed with Dunmer blood.

 

With his magicka almost depleted Adrian stumbled back to Farkas. There was a hollowness inside him, more than just the empty space where his magicka reserves had been. He hadn't even realised he had drawn power from Apocrypha until it was already done.

 

“Love?”

 

Adrian simply made a 'hmm' sound to acknowledge, his eyes growing heavy.

 

“You're bleeding.”

 

“That I am.” Adrian reached up to check with a tentative touch, his fingers slick where it was leaking through his armour. He had yet to feel it, a small mercy. “Tend to me later, it'll only get infected if we do it here.”

 

The portal back opened with a great deal more difficulty, Miraak's knowledge of the proper spell hard to grasp. Dragon memories were starkly alien and thus easy to find, obviously bright and strange in recollection. Miraaks memories were so close to human it was hard to tell quite where they ended and Adrians began, quickly getting lost. Amongst other incidents it had taken a while to realise that his teacher as a young teenager had not been Vokun of Bromjanaar.

 

It took a few attempts, the portal shakier than the inbound journey had been. Even after a deep gulp of restorative his reserves were almost depleted, overdrawn and sluggish to replenish, and his grasp on magicka altogether less sound than it had been the first time.

 

Kynesgrove was not too far from the half buried fort that had served as a Silver Hand base, soon to be an inferno, and the Braidwood inn had three beds to spare. The Innkeeper had wanted to ask questions and thought better of it.

 

Adrian bore the journey quietly in a stark change to the last time he had received that exact injury, though he was silently cursing the Dwemer and their magic dart traps. If he ever found just where they had blasted themselves he was going to take great delight in introducing them to the pointy end of his favourite knife.

 

Once in their room with the door sealed Farkas salved the wound, applying a bandage to it while Adrian stood impatiently holding up his fresh tunic.

 

Certain his love was all fine he immediately went to work covering every inch of himself in the same salve, the itching already enough to drive him mad. By morning their would be a very unusual story amongst the late sleeping locals of what appeared to be a massive bear scratching itself against a tree very close to town.

 

Aela and Vilkas were next, padding over from their own rooms, picking up the medicinal scent and very much wanting some for themselves.

 

Adrian knew he should not have found it funny how red they were, especially when it had been silver that had scrubbed their skin raw, but he almost couldn't help himself. Indignity was usually his domain amongst the Circle, it felt too good to be the one looking in for once.

 

Unfortunately speculation and rumour spread fast about just how all but one of the Companions had managed to get 'sunburn' absolutely everywhere. In better times Adrian would have been equally mortified and delighted at the great many ideas that were certainly as debauched as they were creative.

 

According to the scandalous rumours they were doing some impossibly athletic things out in the forest with a bowl of troll fat and a copy of Boethiahs Pillow Book, all under a midday sun.

 

The idea wasn't particularly an unattractive one, it was just that neither Vilkas nor Aela was to his tastes.

 

Even though he thought of her like a sister, his Shield-Sister by their own terms, there was some things he would never share with her. His place beneath Farkas' bedlinens was most certainly one of them. Also books. She turned the corners down to mark her place, and that was unforgivable.

 

Vilkas was only attractive so far as he looked like Farkas, any attraction lost when he opened his mouth and showed his heart wasn't nearly the same as his brothers.

 

Aela was considerably less pleased to discover the rumours. Especially when she overheard some less than polite whispers from a Stormcloak stationed there about which twin was at which end of her. He had gone back to Windhelm with his nose considerably less straight than when he had left.

 

A little way into the night Farkas had to rise from his sleep, climb over Adrian with great care to not wake him, and confront the local bard. He had repeated 'The Dragonborn Comes' for what had perhaps been the fifth time in an hour. In the face of a man a head taller, marked as a warrior by their countless scars, and very much naked and annoyed, they had no choice but to put their lute down and retreat quickly.

 

When he returned to his bed he could almost hear the amused smirk from Adrian.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this might be one of my favourite chapters, along with the other ones where I get to indulge in daedric weirdness. Comments? Thoughts? Theories?


	22. War Council

 

Eorland had barely a moment to shout the warning before there was a shriek of straining metal and then a too loud crack. For the third time that evening the Skyforge had produced failure, its old magic faltering as if disturbed once the day was done and twilight had set in. Something about it felt wrong, the fire spitting embers ever so slightly tinged as if copper shavings had found their way in.

 

He patted himself down finding no obvious wound. When he looked over to Farkas he saw him frozen perfectly in place, breath held, the slightest tip of a crooked dagger embedded right into his armour.

 

“Hold still, I’ve got it.” Eorland wrapped his finger tips around it, thick skin long burned and worn out of all sense of hot or sharp. He wiggled it a few times, tearing the splinter free. “There you go. All good?”

 

“Just saw my life go past. Not ready to tell Tsun I died in an accident.” Farkas took a deep breath, puffing out his chest all the way. His armour cracked almost in half when he did so.

 

“Bring that back to me tomorrow and I’ll fix it. I'm calling it tonight, I think Fralia might appreciate me home early for once.”

 

“You do that old man. Give her my best.”

 

“Who are you calling old, pup.” Eorland chucked heartily, patting him on the shoulder as he passed him by. “I suggest you go chase that husband of yours, before he does something he might regret.”

 

“Like strangle the Jarl?” Farkas knew full well that Adrian would never do that. He would use the Voice and summon a tornado indoors instead. Farkas had witnessed that only once and it was certainty a spectacle to behold. Luckily that contract didn’t specify the target had to be brought back alive, just that they be delivered.

 

“You know him best of all of us. He's trapped up there surrounded by nobles.” Eorland looked up toward Dragonsreach. “He will crack sooner or later.”

 

“Probably. Also he's not my husband.”

 

“All too aware of that. I'd say make an honest man out of him but I think even a set of rings and an amulet of Mara couldn’t quite manage it.”

 

“I think you just want me to buy a set of fancy rings from your wife.”

 

“Can't be blamed for trying to get dear Fralia an interesting commission.” With those last words Eorland vanished down the steps, leaving Farkas alone to clear up his tools.

 

He turned back to where he had set his sword, the wrappings on the handle freshly replaced, only to find it covered in butterflies.

 

He stared for a moment unsure what to do. Worryingly they all seemed to stare back, judging.

 

Farkas tentatively reached for his sword, lifting it up and trying to shake them free. At first they didn’t move, just turning to watch him as he swung the blade. Still judging.

 

Eventually they scattered, leaving the distinct impression that they were displeased.

 

Those butterflies were starting to become a problem, always near the hall. Adrian had taken to using **Fus** on them, an oddly cruel choice for him. He had cryptically commented that they were not native to Skyrim, and that they had no right to be there.

 

Farkas returned to the hall, trying to put the creatures from his mind, arriving to a scene.

 

Athis was holding a book up aloft, trying to stop Vilkas from taking it from him. Aela was watching and very much amused, Athis height enough to keep it just out of reach. The Whelps, the old generation and the new, were all watching uncertain exactly what to do.

 

It seemed all present bar Farkas thought it was Adrians journal, likely full of salacious secrets.

 

Farkas recognised it instantly for what it really was. A copy of 'Magickal and Mundane Flora and Fauna of Skyrim' in a very well used condition, vastly over filled with bookmarks.

 

Athis flicked it open on a random mark, holding it aloft and reading the first paragraph as if rehearsing for one of the terrible pageant plays the Temple had put on before the civil war had broken out.

 

“Mated pairs tend to show increased aggression to travellers in their territory. Thought not a foolproof way of telling, it is not uncommon to see marks or scars around the neck scruff of mated pairs of wolves, a bite used as a secure hold for mounting.” Athis snapped the book shut with a disappointed look. “I think that’s enough of that.”

 

Athis doubled over, Vilkas having punched him in the gut and slammed his elbow right down against his back.

 

“And I now understand why Adrian wears such high collars.” Vilkas spoke it a low as possible, only those with sharper than human hearing picking up on it. He took the book from the gasping Dunmer now on the floor, showing it the proper care and deference all books deserved.

 

Aela snorted a barely concealed laugh, shooting Farkas a knowing look.

 

Farkas bore it about as well as he could, grabbing a loaf of bread and filling a flagon with soup to take up to Dragonsreach. Vilkas passed the book to him as he left to pass along to its rightful owner.

 

Some of the Whelps had gotten bold as of late, especially without Kodlak to nip at their heels. Aela was happy to let them run feral, Vilkas was away as often as he was present, and Farkas felt it was not his place to discipline them. Between them they had all rejected the rank of Harbinger, Adrian included. He had outright stated his duty as Dragonborn had to come first.

 

It was Vilkas and Adrian that filled Kodlaks role as negotiator, Vilkas doing most of the delicate work of herding nobles and their ridiculous egos. Aela and Farkas were handling the timing and execution of contracts, much as they always had, just by their own judgement rather than on the orders of the Harbinger.

 

They were holding the Companions together as best as they could, but they were without direction. Kodlak had always had a vision for their future, even if Aela and Skjor had fought his particular course. Now they had the numbers, fame and resources at their disposal to do all of it and more, but had no clue just what to do with it.

 

The only hope had been Kodlaks notes, whatever thing he had been working on so intensely before his death. They had not been recovered from his quarters, Adrian having scoured them top to bottom himself to be sure.

 

Aela had thrown herself into her worship, her scent now almost permanently tinged with preys blood, spice and burning herbs. It was almost stronger than the ink and salt around Adrian. If Hircine had any suggestions for them he was not willing to share, at least that was the impression Farkas got from Aelas increasingly short temper around the ritual days.

 

None would admit the truth, but it felt like the Companions were at their end. Once they had numbered nearly a thousand, now they could barely muster twenty on the rise. A line near unbroken to the dawn of Skyrim, when the land had been Mereth under the rule of the Falmer, finally reaching its conclusion.

 

Even their new burst of life felt like a last grasp at glory. Farkas endeavoured to not think about it, at least until he could get the Circle together to deal with it properly. He wasn’t going to let his family fall apart, not without a proper fight.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Farkas pushed the door open with his shoulder, just enough to slip in, his hands full with soup and a book threatening to spill its marks everywhere.

 

Dragonsreach was empty.

 

There should have at least been a handful of guards and the odd servant or two. Instead there was a quiet heavy enough to be suffocating. Even the firepit was extinguished.

 

Farkas took a few steps forward through the barely lit hall, a whisper of wind brushing past him with the creak of a floorboard.

 

He prided himself on being fast enough to not be caught off guard. That was why it was doubly embarrassing for him to have a knife against his throat and his sword taken from his back in a place that ought to have been safe.

 

“Care to explain why someone so delightfully handsome just wandered into this oh so important political meeting.” She was leaned in close, so close her breath warmed his ear. The blade against his throat was freshly sharpened and oiled, the oil not quite strong enough to cover the scent of blood around her.

 

There was a growl from behind him, too low to be fully human.

 

“I know his scent. The Dragonborn reeks of this guy, and they smell of him the same.” The tone was not friendly toward the Dragonborn.

 

“You must be Farkas. Adrian has told us all about you.” The knife was lowered slowly, Farkas taking a careful step forward and turning to see just who they were.

 

She spun the knife a few times, stylish and practiced, giving Farkas a sly smile.

 

“And I don't know who you are.”

 

“I though he would have mentioned us at least. I'm Astrid, and this is my dear husband Arnbjorn. We're close friends of your lover.” Astrid offered her hand delicately, too mockingly exaggerated to be believable.

 

“Never mentioned you before.” Farkas was certain he had heard the name Arnbjorn before, but not from Adrian.

 

“Really?” She put on a mock look of hurt. “I simply cannot imagine why not.”

 

Arnbjorn stood bolt straight, clearly trained to be still and silent when required. Farkas almost missed it, but the white bright glow behind his eyes and the too sharp tooth in his sneer made it clear he was a werewolf too. His scent was covered by something, impossible to detect even at a pace and a half away.

 

“Why are you here?”

 

“Checking on Adrian, brought him something to eat.”

 

“How considerate, especially with how inhospitable the Jarl has been. Let us walk you up to the meeting.” Astrid made a sweeping motion, insisting that he go first and that they would follow.

 

“So why are you here?”

 

“Security.” She chuckled as if there was some private joke. “This meeting has drawn the attention of a great many amateur assassins looking to turn an easy profit with the Empire or the Dominion. We are exceptionally good at dealing with assassins that do not belong in this territory.”

 

Farkas noticed that their footfalls were too light to be heard, a quick glance behind confirmed that they were certainly there. Astrid was smiling, Arnbjorn looked like he wanted little more than to slice him open from neck to belly and feast on his heart.

 

He could spot them now up in the gallery, lingering in the shadows. An old man that looked irritated to be there, an elf, an argonian perched up on a rafter waiting to drop on any intruders, and a young girl with eyes dangerously bright against the darkness. They were all watching him, and he got the distinct impression that they were letting him know they were there as a warning.

 

There was a certainty in him that if they were all capable of doing him great harm, alone and together.

 

Upon entering the upper room, what Farkas knew to be the war room, there was a drawing of blades. Two Stormcloaks and two Legionaries approached cautiously, looking to Astrid for confirmation he wasn't there for another attempt on their leaders lives.

 

“I'm here to see Adrian.”

 

“He's with me.” Adrian looked up from the table, a warmth in his look at Farkas presence.

 

“Dragonborn?” General Tulius palmed the hilt of his blade, distrust in every movement.

 

“He's no threat.” Adrian gave him a sharp look, speaking with just the faintest rumble of Thuum behind it. “Stand down.”

 

“Stand down.” Tulius gave the order.

 

Ulfric was clearly amused, a quick nod confirming that his soldiers should do the same.

 

The leaders of the Legion and the Stormcloaks were stood at opposite ends of the table, a darkly dressed Redguard acting as arbitrator. Jarl Baalgruuf was present at the meeting, though off to the side keeping a close eye on Ulfric.

 

The Redguard gave a short salute toward Astrid, of the sort Farkas didn’t recognise. An open palm over his heart and a slightly bowed head, but with a familiar smile on his lip.

 

“I'm sorry I didn’t get back for dinner, but this is important.” Adrian crossed over to Farkas, a barely there brush of fingers over his knuckles the only affection he could give in such an uncomfortable setting.

 

“Figured. I brought you some just in case.” Farkas set it down on the table, every soldier in the room eyeing it with suspicion.

 

“Isn’t that cute, lamb-shank and the little Circle pup playing happy family.” Arnbjorn scoffed.

 

“Shut it dog breath.” Adrian snapped at him, his look strangely playful for how viciously he had said it.

 

“Now, now, children. Play nice.” Astrid stood between them, one hand on Arbjorns chest as if holding him back. “Or don't, a little violence between Brothers never hurt anybody.”

 

“Astrid, please put your husband on a shorter leash. He seems unsettled, perhaps take him for a walk.”

 

“I'd love to put him in a collar and leash, and I’m certain you'd like to see that too. Especially given your tastes.” Astrid gave Farkas a very deliberate look, raising a suggestive eyebrow toward Adrian.

 

“Do I not get a say in this?” Anbjorn grumbled, folding his arms over his chest.

 

“No.” Astrid and Adrian both spoke, sharing a grin with each other.

 

“I appreciate your presence, but is it wise to leave Festus alone for so long? You know what he gets like when he's bored, and this whole place is flammable.”

 

“I can take a hint. Have fun.” Astrid took her husband by the elbow and lead him out into the upper gallery.

 

Adrian gave an over the top bow of his head, toying with the line between respectful and cheeky.

 

“I don't know how you can be so at ease with them here?” General Tulius watched her leave, catching the way she blew a kiss toward him with one hand whilst spinning her knife in the other.

 

“They are bound by our agreement.”

 

“Their kind are never bound, only rented.”

 

“Duly noted.” Adrian stiffened as if insulted, only Farkas recognising the tensing of his jaw and the way he moved his fingers as if contemplating a spell. “Why don't you recap events now that we have a representative of one of the major guilds present.”

 

Farkas took a moment to realise they meant him.

 

“Aye, I think that might be wise.” Farkas had only passingly noticed him until that moment, a red haired man that looked like the sort to cause trouble. “At least the lad showed his face, can't say the same for the wizards.”

 

There was three other representatives in the room, all staying at the periphery. A merchant bearing the mark of the East Empire company, a severe older woman dressed darkly, and a woman who looked to be her daughter from the resemblance.

 

“There has been an unexpected development in the war.” Tulius put it delicately, getting a scoff from one of the Stormcloak guards.

 

“What he means is that the elves have finally bared their teeth and the Empire has done nothing to stop them.” Ulfric huffed, smug that he was right at long last.

 

“The Empire empowered me to make political decisions over the fate of this province. We signed a temporary truce up at High Wrothgar a little over a year ago, and since then there has been a cessation of hostilities.” Tulius seemed troubled, uncertain if he was doing the right thing.

 

“Go on.” Adrian spoke, again with a faint rumble behind it.

 

“I used my authority to begin negotiating a more permanent truce, with concessions made to both sides. The Dominion interfered, and now every serving soldier of the Legion within Skyrims borders has been marked as having defied the White-Gold Concordat.”

 

“How?” Farkas had heard rumblings of something not quite right, Vilkas in his travels gathering up any news of events that might put them in danger. It was on Vilkas' suggestion Adrian had reached out to both sides for the first meeting in Dragonsreach, the Companions officially unable to interfere where the Dragonborn could.

 

“Not properly prosecuting a known faction of Talos worshippers.” Ulfric tried not to sound like he was enjoying Tullius' discomfort. “Signing a truce with my Stormcloaks has been viewed as an endorsement of our cause.”

 

“So now we're forced into this ridiculous alliance.”

 

“Not so ridiculous you haven’t signed your name to it, or trusted Legate Rikke to Windhelm.”

 

“She volunteered. I can't say the same for Galmar. Solitude disagrees with him.”

 

“Can't think why, I found it perfectly welcoming on my last visit. Pass my regards along to Jarl Elisif when you return.” Ulfric seemed to be entirely in his element, where Tulius looked ready to end negotiations with the sharp end of his blade.

 

“Listen here you disrespectful traitor...”

 

Adrian gave Farkas an apologetic look.

 

“They've been like this all day. Bunch of bastards one and all.” He spoke it so quietly it fell just below human hearing.

 

Farkas nodded in agreement. So did Serana with a single chuckle. Valerica just rolled her eyes, muttering about 'mortals' and their pettiness.

 

“I would love for you to stay, but I understand you have duties back at the hall that call to you.” Adrian spoke it loudly and deliberately enough to stop the bickering leaders for a moment, dropping back to that unhearable tone. “Escape while you have a chance.”

 

“That I do.” Farkas nodded. “Honour to you all from the Companions, and good evening.”

 

“One last thing.” Adrian moved deliberately, putting his fingers to the rent in Farkas’ armour with a mischievous smile. “ **Qah Krent Vo”**

 

The hall was silent instantly, all turning to see what had happened. Farkas’ armour had snapped shut with a near deafening ring, the damage repaired as if it had never been there.

 

That had forced all attention to Adrian and silenced the bickering, giving Farkas his moment to escape.

 

Farkas left quickly, all too aware that Adrian direly wanted to be leaving with him and could not.

 

He made it to the door before being stopped.

 

“Hold, I would have a word with you.”

 

The accent was familiar, slightly sharp at the edges and very Breton for someone wearing a Stormcloak uniform. It had a twinge to it that reminded him of Low Wrothgarian, though he was most certainly not from Orsinium.

 

He lifted his helmet off and ran a hand through his hair, but didn't lower the cowl. He was blond, a strikingly pale tone except at the roots. He had lightened his with ash and lye soap, and if not for the fact his eyes were a bright golden honey that was strikingly Altmer he would pass for a Nord at a glance.

 

Even Farkas had to admit he was wearing too much warpaint, what little of his face he could see was splashed in several shades of blue. Only Adrian had ever gone so far with the markings, at least until Aela had reigned him in.

 

The other Stormcloak, the one that hovered close enough to him that even Farkas could see there was something there, gave him a knowing look. It seemed he agreed that warpaint should not be applied so heavily it could probably turn a blade as well as any helmet.

 

"You seemed close with Adrian." He used a conversational tone, but with a slight accusatory edge. Farkas did not miss that he didn’t call him 'the Dragonborn' like all the others did.

 

"That I am. I didn’t catch your name?" It was word for word something he had seen Adrian use to extract a name with much success. The words felt wrong in his mouth, dishonestly polite in a way he could barely stomach.

 

"Gero. Of Evermore." There was a short moment of silence. "And this is my commanding officer Ralof of Riverwood."

 

“So what’s it to you, me and him?”

 

“I know Adrian, I'm just saying to be careful.”

 

“Duly noted.” Farkas brushed him off dismissively, leaving Dragonsreach.

 

Above the Dark Brotherhood tittered amongst themselves, clearly amused at their Brother and his brother and the drama of it all. Adrian did always have a way of making things interesting.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was another indulgent one; I adore writing Astrid and Arnbjorn, even more Daedric weirdness, cameos from a lot of important characters from other questlines outside the Companions, and throwing in things only people who follow me on tumblr might recognise. 
> 
> I strongly think it needs another editing pass, but for now I just want it out.


	23. Scrying, Rising, Calling

 

Farkas grabbed the plate of sweetened bread and a pitcher of water, taking it out into the training yard. Midday, and with it lunch, had been and gone without the Breton coming back inside to eat.

 

“Farkas.” Adrian waved him over to the table, more than glad for his presence.

 

“Brought you something.” Farkas lifted the offering to show him, getting an appreciative nod.

 

“Thank you, I'll eat it later.” He took the plate and put it down next to an open map of the province.

 

“No, you'll forget about it and find it covered in ants.” Farkas picked up a slice and put it to his face with a look of warning.

 

There was a short standoff, Farkas unwilling to back down and Adrian unwilling to stop working.

 

“Fine, I’ll have some.” Adrian took the slice and stuffed it into his mouth in one bite, barely chewed, and swallowed it dry. “Happy now?”

 

“A little.” He tried not to smile as Adrian clearly fought not to cough, his face getting redder by the moment. Farkas finally took mercy and refilled his goblet of water, which was snatched immediately and downed.

 

“Not like you to do your reading outside.” He picked up one of the open books, took a cursory glance at the circular array of symbols and put it immediately down.

 

“No magic in the hall.” Adrian did a surprisingly accurate imitation of Aela's accent and facial expression. “And that now includes the Words of Power.”

 

Repairs had to be done to the roof recently, the accumulated damage from the Thuum starting to pop the nails and bolts out of place. They had found generations of miscellanea up there, including a blood soaked dagger tip.

 

“Figured that was it. Need me for anything?”

 

“Can't I want for your company?” It was too sweet, too much mischief behind it. Farkas knew better, and still went along with it anyway.

 

“Get on with it.” He rolled his eyes, but made no further protest when Adrian gave him a hint of a kiss on the cheek.

 

“Hold this.” Adrian scooped up a leather pouch from atop the unfurled map and dropped into his hands. Farkas immediately felt something uncomfortable from it, a coldness that was nothing to do with the temperature.

 

“What is it, and why does it feel bad?”

 

“Crushed soul gems, and don't worry about it. Soul gems try to leech energy if they're not properly filled, but they're too broken to actually do anything.” He was already in a book, brow furrowed in concentration.

 

“Get on with it.” He repeated with a little more emphasis, his patience being tried against his caution.

 

“Hold a moment. I'm trying to do something I don't think anyone else has ever done.” Adrian was not wholly aware of it, but there had been one other who had done it.

 

“Magic is bad enough. Experimental magic has a habit of doing harm.” Farkas' warning was swiftly ignored.

 

“ **Koraav, Dilon, Staad**.” He spoke the Words very carefully, slower than a true shout but with all of the force still behind it. He had one hand cupped around the pouch, almost as if trying to shepherd the Thuum to its proper place.

 

He held his other hand over the map, a circle of blue and yellow light forming with each twitch and motion of his fingers. There was a soft chime, like a glass decanter being gently tapped by a silver spoon.

 

“Done yet?” The cold grew fierce, the leather starting to stiffen and freeze under his touch.

 

“Yes, empty it onto the map.”

 

Farkas tilted the bag and out poured black sand that caught the light a painful purple tone. It landed heavily, without bouncing or scattering, and after a moment began spreading like swarming insects across the map. Each grain found what it was seeking, Adrian's grin growing wider until the last few found their mark. Some of them had gone off the map, a good number went off the north eastern edge and made a few small mounds next to Adrians plate of sweetened bread, and a scarce few went south over the border to Cyrodiil and insistently nudged a discarded quill out of the way to do so.

 

“It work?”

 

“Better than I hoped.” Adrian was now engrossed in the map.

 

“Gonna tell me what you did?”

 

“Scrying spell.”

 

“Find what you were looking for?”

 

“Oh yes.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The sun still set by mid afternoon so early into the year, and yet Adrian remained outside in the training yard when he should have sensibly come inside. Every few minutes there would be another rumble of Thuum, and Aela would look up from her mead with an increasingly dark expression. The only reason she had not outright gone out there and told him very impolitely exactly where he could take his Shouting was Farkas' intervention.

 

Her patience ended abruptly when Tilma shouted for help only a moment after the latest Shout, and out from the side room of the hall ran the pheasants she had been stuffing to roast later. They were featherless and basted in oil and spice, which made them slick and terribly hard to catch. The last one of their flock hobbled along, dragging its cooking skewer across the wood.

 

There was a collective gawking, complete uncertainty gripping almost all of them. Only Athis reacted. He dived for one and caught it, only for it to slip from his hands as he rose it into the air triumphantly. It left a greasy smear of thyme and basil on his boots before making its escape.

 

They flapped and skittered almost to the door before slumping over, as dead as they were supposed to be and now leaking stuffing all over the floor.

 

Vilkas wasn't sure what to make of it, Athis was wholly disgusted, Aela had murder in her eyes, and collectively they all looked at Farkas accusingly.

 

“I'll go talk to him.” Farkas sighed.

 

“You best do that.” Aela folded her arms, too much white-yellow glinting behind her eyes.

 

“Quickly I might suggest.” Vilkas added, offhandedly offering Athis a small cloth from the table.

 

Athis had nothing to say, too busy muttering 'by Azura' to himself, and something about a guar and his boots.

 

Tilma collected the pheasants, putting them back onto their iron tray and being altogether too calm about it. This was nowhere near the strangest thing she had witnessed in her decades of service to the Companions.

 

Farkas slightly opened the door to the training yard, Adrian facing away from him. He slipped through, closing it quietly.

 

There was a feeling in the air, pressure or presence, something about to happen.

 

Farkas opened his mouth to speak and was cut off.

 

“ **Slen Tiid Vo**.” Adrian spoke the shout too slowly, the world trembling as the power built without release. The air stained blue, writhing as if trying to break free from his power.

 

Butterflies and book pages fluttered and fought almost beyond the furthest edge of his senses, red moonlight and silvery dusk bled and redoubled, Oblivion reaching up into the world and clawing at the already straining liminial barrier.

 

Adrian drew a slow breath, counting down in his head as he tried to keep the excitement swelling in his chest from destroying his carefully maintained concentration.

 

Farkas flinched without realising, the Shout scratching at the inside of his head in a way he knew meant trouble. Even his bones hurt with the vibration of it.

 

“ **Diil Di Zaam**.” The final word shattered the effect a moment too soon, a ripple sent out that made Farkas lurch as if punched in the gut. He sucked in a breath through sharpened teeth, pushing the change back down.

 

Adrian stumbled, reaching futility as if he could catch it with his hands.

 

The force bounced and redoubled, a swirl of white light forming over the table, strands glistening in the air as they were pulled down into their intended vessel.

 

For all of the power expended and all of the effort only a single thing happened. The butterfly that had been lying limp on the table fluttered its wings and took off. It was one of the ones that had been haunting Whiterun, brightly coloured and quite large compared to the native ones.

 

Adrian leaned in close as if scrutinising it. He waved over toward a blank sheet of power, drawing it to his hand with a snap of orange magic, drawing a quill over too. He scribbled a quick note, dropping it aside to watch the butterfly again.

 

It was only after standing there for a moment Farkas realised Adrian wasn’t actually studying it, the butterfly was going wherever he looked. He was directly in control of it.

 

He seemed amused with himself, making the creature do loops and dives just with concentration. Once certain he had learned all he could he reached out and incinerated it with a simple snap of flame.

 

Farkas decided then and there that he was most certainly not getting involved in anything that magical. He turned, went straight through the hall and out to the Bannered Mare, giving the two remaining Companions a non committal shrug. Adrian was Aela and Vilkas' problem for the evening.

 

Neither of them were much pleased about that.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

It had been almost inescapable those last few months, but Farkas was now more than tired of hearing 'The Dragonborn Comes'. He was certain he was hearing it, again and again, even in his dreams.

 

Pleasantly full of mead he returned to the hall to find Aela refusing to acknowledge his presence and Vilkas in an equally sour mood and. They had been picking at a vegetable pie between themselves, the pheasant no longer an appealing meal. Tilma had been shocked that something had finally put a werewolf off meat, even if it was likely short lived. It had been the first time in quite literally decades she had gotten to use that particular recipe.

 

The rumbling had not stopped. It had actually grown in strength and frequency to the point where the Jarl had sent the city guard to investigate. They had gone back to the Jarl with confirmation that it was indeed the Dragonborn, and with a promise that what he was doing was direly important. The Jarl had already drafted up a letter of temporary exile from the Hold, only to be issued if he wasn’t done trembling the foundations of the city by midnight.

 

“He still out there?” Farkas nodded toward the other door, leaning against one of the pillars and letting the warmth and the swaying of the room contentedly pass through him.

 

“You have to ask?” Vilkas had barely spoken it when the air moved, the windows rattled in their frames, and one of the apples that had been left out on the table too long split open, a sapling sprouted from it, grew upward for a few seconds and then crumbled to dust. Farkas watched it happen, took a moment to consider it, and made a slightly concerned 'hmm' at it.

 

The rest of the Companions had long fled. The older few of the Whelps had grabbed the first job waiting, insisted it was definitely one that needed a team, that they would be happy splitting the already meagre pay, and then they swiftly packed down their camping gear and headed out to the furthest distance on the Whiterun plains that the Thuum could be felt.

 

Farkas opened the doors, boldly this time, catching Adrian stood slouched with his eyes closed. He thought he was asleep for a bare moment, the rise and fall of his chest shallow. It was only when he saw the ring of candles and the lit censer belching sticky sweet smoke did he realise he was trying to meditate on the Words of Power. He had seen him do it a few times, adding some new edge to his Shouts or finding some new strange combination of the Words.

 

When he opened his eyes he gave Farkas the barest of looks, a cursory smile curling his lip before he completely immersed himself in whatever deep mental state he had been preparing for. His expression grew deathly serious, his stance too tall, too severe.

 

He reached up to lift his mask from his face, fingers brushing the back of his head and not the buckles with a moment of clear confusion.

 

“ **Slen Tiid Vo.”** Adrian stretched out his left hand, clenching a fist as if holding the words. **“** **Diil Di Zaam.”** He held out his right and gripped, reality stretching dangerously thin around him and already straining at its edges. **“** **Gol Hah Dov**.” He let go, palms raised to the sky, and the Words were free.

 

Farkas felt sure all of Skyrim had felt that Shout. It echoed back from the mountains too many times, spreading in a wave that touched every stone and peak, for an instant the whole province vibrating like the strings of a too strung lute from the rim of the sky to the deepest crypts.

 

In the shadow of Gjukar's Monument the Whelps were all startled awake in their circle of tents, cursing the Dragonborn.

 

Adrian let the feeling wash over him, a distant thing at first, a slow awakening as more and more answered his call. When he closed his eyes he could almost see them, each one a pinprick of light that together shone like the night sky. He couldn’t help the pride that swelled in his chest, and the smile that followed. It had once been Alduin's work meant to bring harm and subjugation, and now it was all his.

 

He shrugged, letting the feeling retreat to the back of his mind where he could draw it later when truly needed.

 

Farkas had been frowning at him the whole time, concern undisguised.

 

Adrian saw the look he had been getting and marched up to him, grabbing him by the collar of his armour and dragging him down for a bruisingly forward kiss before stalking away grinning like a thief with a purse full of someone else's money.

 

It was victorious, even vainglorious, how he carried himself.

 

Farkas was perhaps only a little appeased by it. Something still ate at him, something not quite right he didn’t want to put into words. Something at the edge of his senses he couldn't quite grasp.

 

Quickly he decided it was not worth worrying about. What was worth worrying about was how late it was, and how it seemed Adrian was determined to go right back to his work.

 

Farkas gently wrapped his arms around him from behind, leaned his head into the hollow of his shoulder, and with one swift move lifted him up into a bridal carry and marched right back into the hall with him.

 

Adrian had been out in the cold too long, too engrossed in his work to notice his joints were stiff and his skin paler than usual even for a Breton.

 

He protested mildly, no real fight in him and no desire to ever say no to his love. Without putting the Dragonborn down Farkas got Tilmas attention and requested she pack up Adrian's things still outside and then heat up enough water to fill a tub. Farkas had sensibly invested in a bigger wooden bathtub barely a month prior, perfectly sized for two to sit in. It had been an anniversary gift, marking that it had been two years since Adrian had first walked into Jorrvaskr.

 

Tilma delivered the water dutifully, but did not spare the knowing looks she gave them both. Her delightfully misspent youth had taught her that there were some equally delightful things that could be gotten up to in a bathtub, especially with an enthusiastic partner or two.

 

She placed a bottle of scented oil on the bar top of Farkas quarters, not once breaking unflinching eye contact with Adrian, and all too innocently suggested it was just for making the steam from the bath smell nice. Adrian nodded along with her, not once losing his composure, standing so bolt straight it was clear he was mortified inside and trying very hard to hide it. Farkas had yet to quite break him of that prim and properness, but he was getting there.

 

He had turned away from her, unable to handle the situation at all. Dragons, draugr and forsworn could all be slain, but embarrassment was proofed against blade and spell.

 

It was all worth it when he sank into the water, sat between Farkas outstretched legs and leaning back against him. They stayed like that for some time, idly talking, at least until Farkas didn’t get a reply to a question and realised Adrian's breathing had gotten very deep and restful.

 

It was almost a shame to have to wake him, but the water was getting cold.

 

Adrian mumbled irritably the entire time he was drying himself off, only silenced when Farkas climbed into bed and wrapped his arms around him. He simple shuffled himself about, putting a pillow against him, and curled up as close as he could and soaked up as much of the phenomenal warmth Farkas gave out.

 

Farkas' rest was light, something like worry curling in his chest. He couldn’t quite place it, but Adrian still did not smell quite right. There was a foreign scent there, lingering, almost like paper and vellum left in the rain to spoil.

 

The Dragonborn fell asleep quickly, and across Skyrim in all of its deepest, darkest places every single one of the draugr returned to their sleep too.

 

 


	24. A Challenge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has some mildly NSFW parts at the beginning, skip to the first line break if that isn't what you are here for.

 

 

Farkas gripped tightly enough to leave a mark on Adrians rear, lifting him up a little and lowering him down harshly.

 

Adrian snapped out of his thoughts, letting out something like a whimper.

 

“I prefer willing and present when someone is sharing my bed.”

 

“Sorry, I'm just distracted.”

 

“I noticed. Should I stop?”

 

“No.” Adrian pretended to think for a moment, gently lifting and lowering himself the entire time just because he loved to see the flashes of moonlight bright light behind Farkas’ eyes.

 

“Share your thoughts?” Farkas leaned back, propping himself up on his elbows so Adrian had to hold himself up with his own strength.

 

His response to being left to his own devices was to just sit straight down onto Farkas, and then tucking his legs under himself so that the work was squarely back on Farkas to do all the thrusting upward.

 

“Later maybe. I’ve not got all my thoughts straight in my own head yet. What about you, you’ve been quieter than usual lately?”

 

Farkas frowned, clearly sorting through his own worries and finding the right words.

 

“I’ve been thinking about Vilkas.”

 

“I’m fairly certain the gods frown upon thinking about you brother whilst in bed.” Adrian smirked slightly, getting a sharp look from Farkas. “Sorry. Continue.”

 

“I’ve never really been apart from him for any time, since we were just pups. Now it feels like he’s barely here anymore.” Farkas closed his eyes and let out a long sigh, a warm hand coming to rest against his chest right where his heartbeat could be felt. “I’ve always been prepared to lose him to a sword or an arrow, life of a Companion. This is something else, something I don’t know how to deal with.”

 

“Talk to him.”

 

“Don’t know how. Never have.”

 

“That’s a lie. You’re closer to him than anybody, even me I think.”

 

“Didn’t you say the gods frown on that?” Farkas let a short huff of a laugh free, cracking open a single eye to see Adrians disapproving look.

 

“Not what I was implying.” Adrian rolled his eyes and his hips, Farkas swallowing visibly and keeping his eyes shut.

 

Farkas ran his hands down Adrians thighs, once up and down, before getting a firm grip and resuming his shallow motions. Slow and relaxed, appreciative of just the contact.

 

“I’ll think about it.”

 

There was a short, polite knock on the door. Too polite to be Aela, too light to be Vilkas.

 

Farkas opened his eyes and looked down at Adrian, silently suggesting he deal with it since he was on top and could climb off easier. Adrian shot a look back that suggested he would rather not get up while his sense of balance had been more than scrambled by some delightfully thorough treatment.

 

“Are you decent?” Athis knew more than well enough never to enter without an invitation, unless he direly wanted to see just how much of Farkas could fit into Adrian.

 

“No.” “We never are.” They answered over each other, sharing a look and a warm laugh.

 

“I was sent to get you for the Circle meeting, that's if you’re done breeding more than a Kwama Queen in the storm season.”

 

“Tell them we’ll be up soon.”

 

“How soon?” Farkas grumbled.

 

“That all depends on you.” Adrian gave him a wide smile, something too confident and too calm behind his eyes, a slight accent catching the edge of his words that was most certainly not Low Wrothgarian.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

The Whelps had been sent away and all the doors locked. Adrian had set spells of warding and dampening around the perimeter of the hall as a final certainty. What was being discussed was not for anyone but then Circle.

 

It was hard to know if they ought to be sober and clear headed or drunk enough for true honestly and loose tongues. Tilma had prepared for both; water, milk, ale and honey wine all arranged on a silver platter to be taken as desired.

 

Thus far only Adrian and Aela had chosen to be clear of thought, though Aela was clearly toying with the idea of downing a whole goblet by the way she kept touching the rim of it and then moving it away from herself every time the argument went around in a circle.

 

“Kodlak always said it was a curse. I’m inclined to believe him.” Vilkas had stated the same thing in several different ways.

 

Farkas stayed silent, turning to Aela knowing her answer before she could say it. His patience was wearing thin with the whole situation.

 

“Kodlak isn’t here. If we are to give the dead a vote I say Skjor would have us all do as we always have.” Aela squared her shoulders, clearly a challenge.

 

“And the cost? We are all marked for the Hunting Grounds.”

 

“Nothing is ever without a cost.” Adrian broke the stalemate, sensing that if he didn't then Farkas certainly would. “I saw we should stay the course.”

 

“I mean you no ill Dragonobrn, but you’re not one of us. You rejected the blood.” Vilkas spoke sharply, Adrian uncertain if it was because he envied his untainted humanity or was irritated he had rejected the blood and was not in the present predicament with them. Farkas knew which it was.

 

“No, he didn't. The Blood wouldn’t take. Werewolf or not he has just as much claim to the Circle as any of us do. More than you I think. He’s at least here to do his duty to the Companions, more than you have as of late.” Farkas bared his teeth and leaned forward, eyes flashing moonlight bright for a long moment. Farkas realised instantly it was the wrong thing to say, Vilkas turning away as if ashamed.

 

“Rejected?” Vilkas suppressed the urge to bare his teeth back at his own brother, his own wolf snarling and uncertain at the challenge from someone who had never done so before. He knew full well Farkas was right to be angry, for his absence and for the Dragonborns honour. There would be time later to put things right, in a more private place once present business was attended to.

 

“What Farkas means is he tried to turn me. It rejected.” Adrian shifted In his chair, clearly uncomfortable. He was looking down into his mug of water, not meeting Farkas’ look of longing and regret. “I wanted Hircines gift, so I could be like you. With you.”

 

What he clearly wanted to say was ‘Like Farkas. With Farkas.’ but found himself not quite able to say it. It was still a wound between them, slow to heal and far too raw to be spoken of easily.

 

“It wouldn’t take?” Aela looked accusingly at Farkas as if he had somehow failed to do it right, wondering if it had something to do with their quarters suddenly smelling faintly of blood and old paper some months ago. “How?”

 

“I started to turn, then I didn't.” He just shrugged as if it was a satisfactory answer.

 

“We did it right if...” Farkas was cut off by the windows trembling as if struck, one of them bursting inwards with a force of Shout. The air grew cold, shimmering and trembling as if straining against conflicting forces.

 

Adrian immediately put himself between the Circle and the threat, reaching for Farkas as he drew a deep breath. Farkas took hold, immediately knowing to grab Vilkas by the forearm and swing him into Aela.

 

“ **Feim Zii Gron** ” In the brief moment of contact Adrian spoke the Words, the pull of it surging down his arm like lightning, through Farkas, Vilkas, and then Aela.

 

Aela stumbled back through the dining table and the fire pit as if it were not there, landing on her back with Vilkas atop of her against coals that should have been hot. With a curse she threw Vilkas aside, drawing a knife from her boot as she stood ready to defend herself.

 

Adrian said something, irritated that it seemed too distant to be heard across whatever under reality his Shout had displaced them to.

 

Vilkas stood up more carefully, trying to grab a chair for leverage and finding himself unable to touch it.

 

Reality rushed in to greet them, colour and presence returning.

 

Adrian was already striding toward the door out to the training yard with Farkas at his side, still gripping his arm tightly as if needing to be certain he was both well and definitely still there. Vilkas and Aela followed swiftly, ready to fight whatever threat dared strike at them in their home.

 

His mood had fiercely soured, that awful unnatural stillness taking him. Farkas hated those moments, Adrian rarely spoke during them but when he did it was not with his own voice, his accent almost Eastmarch Nordic.

 

“ **SPAAN HAH** **THUUM**.”

 

The Shout rolled down the mountain from High Wrothgar as if in response to some dire offence, the air trembling and twisting as the wave of pressure and deep blue light flowed down its slope and across the plains.

 

Adrian raised a ward, flicking it against the wall of light and scattering a safe wake around himself and the hall.

 

He spoke something in the dragon tongue, Whiterun shaking to its foundations atop all the damage already done. All within the city could understand a threat and a warning when they heard one, Adrians words resonating inside as roofing tiles slid free and support beams split and splintered.

 

“ **SPAAN HAH** **THUUM**.” The Greybeards evidently did not rank his threat very highly.

 

Again Adrian simply used a ward to breach a gap, and again Whiterun took the brunt of the damage instead.

 

After a moment of silent contemplation he simply drew a shallow breath, a single squeeze the only warning Farkas got.

 

Farkas felt it boil in the air around him, knowing without knowing quite how that it was that horrible Shout he was about to use.

 

He braced himself, not having time to warn anyone else as it struck like a warhammer.

 

Vilkas fell sideways, catching himself and managing to sit himself down before the dizziness took hold too deeply.

 

Aela managed to stay upright, staggering back slightly before righting herself.

 

Farkas weathered the force with barely a flinch, the words still harsh but nowhere near as much as they had been that day they had visited the Ritual.

  
Where a normal Thuum would tinge the air a crisp blue this one was a dire green. The sky lit up that same sickly green Farkas had seen bleeding from the Stones, great strands of light running like spiders web to the horizon.

 

The Greybeards answer was not immediately evident.

 

It was a speck at first, growing larger as it approached, gliding down from the mountain and out toward Whiterun.

 

Adrian braced to use Dragonrend and was sorely disappointed when the old Dragon simply passed over him and continued westward toward the Reach.

 

There was an accusing rumble of a Word from Adrian, clearly 'coward' even to Farkas' understanding of the language.

 

“Would you care to explain what in the name of Sheogoraths balls that was all about?” Aela looked toward the swarm of city guard timidly approaching looking for their explanation.

 

Adrian drew himself up tall, still contemplative as if he were in the heart of a library. He considered his words carefully as if choosing them for a purpose.

 

“Nothing you need worry about. Forget about it for now.” There was something in the way he said it that almost felt like a demand. Or a command.

 

Aela and Vilkas nodded and agreed too readily, going right back into the hall and the topic of the Beast Blood as if nothing had happened.

 

Only Farkas was left with the feeling that something was deeply wrong.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter still feels like it needs more work, but its at a place where its good enough for now I hope.


	25. A Dragon

 

Farkas accepted the mug of mead from Adrian, offering him a barely there smile back.

 

He wished he couldn’t hear it so clearly, once noticed it was incessant. The bard was playing ‘The Dragonborn Comes’ and everyone except for himself and the Dragonborn themself were keeping tune with it in some way.

 

Adrian dropping onto the bench next to him and leaned against him, resting his head against his shoulder and making a contented noise. He was oddly still, eyes closed as if napping, but Farkas could feel his breathing was not shallow enough for true rest. He had been carrying some kind of strain as of late, expending constant effort for something unseen. His attention faltered easily as if he were focusing on something beyond ever werewolf senses.

 

A plate of food was brought over, no gold exchanged for it, Hulda putting down the cutlery for them so each clink of metal on metal kept tune with the bard. It was not a deliberate action.

 

Farkas picked at his venison, Adrian reaching over in the least stealthy way possible and slowly stealing one of the buttered potatoes. Farkas just looked at him as he just as slowly put it in his mouth, not once breaking eye contact.

 

This was the Adrian he knew and loved, playing the fool trying to get him to laugh. Farkas finally relented, looking away to hide the fact that he was hiding a smile. Adrian took the opportunity to plant a kiss, unpleasantly buttery from the food, right onto his cheek.

 

Adrian was about to say something, still grinning and proud, when his demeanour starkly shifted. He tilted his head as if listening, that cold indifferent attitude blooming into genuine concern as he jumped up.

 

Farkas heard it too, the distinct whistling of dragon wings. Followed swiftly by panic. His first instinct was to rush toward it. His second was to see if Adrian was rushing toward it too. The sound of Words and the Adrian shaped blur that raced ahead strongly suggested he was.

 

“Ysolda.” Farkas waved her down as she helped someone who had fallen into the dirt.

 

“Companion.” She pulled the older gentleman upright, checking him for harm and finding none before setting him back on his way away from the Dragon.

 

“You’re resourceful. Spread the news that Jorrvaskr is open and safe, get people down into the quarters where fire can’t reach.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

“Don’t thank me, get people to safety.” Farkas scowled, wondering just why people felt the need to waste words when their life was in danger.

 

It was a short distance to the incident, finding considerably less destruction and death than he had expected.

 

Farkas was uncertain what to do when confronted with a dragon not trying to introduce its sharp teeth to his tender flesh. It was just sat there, making no move to attack, perched right over the city gate like it was meant to be there. It was different than he had expected it to be, its wings were damaged and its hide scared and chipped.

 

There was a sense of serenity to it that even Farkas knew was not right. The beast blood was uncertain how to respond. Every dragon he had encountered, and Adrian in recent days, had a sensation of danger that simply radiated off them, and with it brought that need to either kill it or run from it right to the surface. He had gotten used to it sleeping next to the Dragonborn, though his heart still thundered occasionally when Adrian caught him with his guard down.

 

The Dragonborn ordered the city guard to stand down, with a sharp gesture. Every one of them obeyed him without question. Even the captain took a step back and allowed him control of the situation with not even a whisper of protest. Something about it made Farkas uneasy, but he could not place exactly what it was.

 

Farkas watched as he approached the two Nords that stood below and seemingly with the Dragon.

 

The woman was familiar, but he could not place where he had met her before. What he could recognise easily was the armour she wore, and the blade at her hip.

 

The older man was unknown to him, though he carried himself exactly how Farkas expected a Blades spy would. He watched every corner, glanced at every face to see if there was any hint of an ambush, and most of all he had his hand just slightly raised and kept his fingers moving in a way that showed he could throw a spell at a moments notice.

 

Adrian spoke a few short words and got what seemed to be a very angry response.

 

Farkas knew better than to approach and chose to do it anyway. The dragon watched him as he got closer, saying nothing and doing nothing to stop him though Farkas got the distinct impression it was sizing him up and studying him.

 

“...that beast told us exactly what you've done.”

 

“We know about Miraak.”

 

“So now you trust the Greybeards?” Adrian kept a calm tone, though Farkas could see the way his hand was trembling.

 

“We trust what our eyes can see, and we see tyranny in its infancy.” Esbern spoke as if well practised, having had time to rehearse much as he would have in his younger days dealing with nobles and politicians.

 

“Tyranny?” Adrian sounded genuinely offended. “I’m doing what they never would, even if they were capable. You left me to my own fate, no warning about what dangers were out there waiting. Just like the Greybeards did.”

 

“Untrue.” The dragon finally spoke, its voice unexpectedly soothing to Farkas ears. “You chose your own path. We were not to know his ill intent toward you.”

 

“You kept power and knowledge from me because you feared I would actually use it for the greater good, power that could have helped me against those dangers. I chose to do something, rather than just sitting atop a mountain and judging the world from afar.” Adrian snapped at the dragon, turning to the Blades. “And you were no better. The Blades were supposed to serve the Dragonborn, but all you wanted was to use my power. I'm done with you all.”

 

“You have given in too easily to the nature of the Dov.” The dragon sounded almost sorrowful. “You will never be content, nothing will ever satisfy that hunger.”

 

“Least of all your new master.” Esbern knew well enough the price of dealing with a Prince. Skyruler Temple had a library filled to the brim with warnings.

 

Adrian grew still, the rage calming to icy control. He tilted his head slightly, moving his arm as if to adjust his mask and remembering once again that he had never worn a mask.

 

“I do not serve him, and I never will. I took what I needed to, what should have been mine in the first place, and used it to destroy the false Dragonborn and the threat he posed to me.” Adrian took a deep breath, the slight lilt of an accent at the edge of his words. “He was right about one thing though, the war, the chaos, the suffering, it all needs to end.”

 

“And you think that is your destiny?” The dragon spoke, then turned to Farkas who was now at Adrians side.

 

“...an end to the evil of all Skyrims woes.” Adrian instinctively reached out, hooking his fingers through Farkas' for just a moment to reassure himself that he was still there.

 

“You're a fool Dragonborn.” Esbern sighed, disappointed but not wholly surprised.

 

Adrian was about to respond when Farkas drew his sword and slammed it down in a single motion, a sloppy parry but enough to keep Delphines blade from piercing Adrians side.

 

Adrian drew a Shout, grabbing Farkas and pulling him close with his left arm, raising the right in a ward spell.

 

Delphine knew to brace when she heard the **'Fus Ro'** , only thrown back a short distance. Esberns lightning was caught by the ward, though it wasn’t what Adrian had intended it for. A stream of dragon fire crashed against the spell, cracking it just as it ended.

 

Adrian ran before Paarthurnax could draw another, giving the order to get everyone inside. The streets were thankfully empty because of Farkas, a second gout of flame searing from the gates to the market, just enough time for Farkas to pull Adrian flush against Belethors shop and out of harms way.

 

Together they dived across the street, The market well exploding in a spray of hot stone as a blast of lightning struck just off its mark. Esbern narrowed his eyes, cursing how out of practice he was. A decade prior he could have taken a mans head clean from his shoulders through just a crack in a window a hundred paces away without even singing their clothes.

 

Adrian faltered in his step, turning on his heel to throw a cloud of frost in retaliation before Farkas could pull him back from standing his ground. He turned awkwardly back into his sprint, barely slowing his stride as he was dragged up the steps to the Cloud District.

 

“We need the rest of the Companions.” Farkas pulled him toward the hall. Adrian pulled the other way.

 

“No, Dragonsreach. I have an idea.”

 

“You're not doing this alone. You’ll have the Companions at your back.”

 

“I’ll stand at his back so that the world might never overtake us.” Adrian had meant to be sly, to be confident when he quoted him back, almost two years since those words were first spoken with the Circle as witness, and instead it came out as reverently as a wedding vow.

 

Farkas pulled him close, arms wrapped around him for a quick and fierce kiss.

 

The sound of a dragon landing atop the Temple of Kynareth split them apart.

 

“Be safe, we’ll be right behind you.”

 

Farkas ran to the hall, his last glance back of Adrian laying a wall of flame and lightning up the steps to Dragonsreach, hoping to temporarily block the Blades, doing so as he ran and ducked dragon fire.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The Companions arrived to chaos. The great balcony was aflame, furniture and tapestries destroyed, Delphine holding a piercing wound on her stomach and being tended to by Esbern.

 

Adrian spared his guildmates only a glance, sword drawn and freshly wet as he watched the sky for Paarthurnax. He made a motion for them to approach, not once truly looking away from the night sky.

 

The dragon was smart enough not to fly into a trap, biding his time waiting for a moment of weakness to strike. No matter how many years it had been he had still once been second only to Alduin.

 

The Whelps secured the two prisoners, a set of guard shackles dulling Esberns magic enough to be contained. They were passed to the city guard to be taken away, the guard somewhere between reluctant to join the fight and overeager to prove themselves.

 

The Circle approached slowly, Farkas at its lead.

 

It was Aela that caught him coming out from the dark. A single arrow turned his course, Adrian throwing himself aside at the last possible moment as jaws almost closed around him.

 

Aela nocked another arrow, catching Paarthurnax in the side and doing little else as he hovered just above the balcony. Another five shots finally got his attention, long enough for Vilkas to run up the gallery and jump, planting his blade between two damaged looking scales and leaving it there as he let himself fall, his landing heavy but doing no harm.

 

Paarthurnax swept out with his wings, Vilkas ducking and giving Ria and Athis enough time climb its side and plant daggers into its wing membrane.

 

Adrian used their distraction to draw a breath and Shout, Paarthurnax bracing as if expecting an attack.

 

“ **Dur Nah Viir**.” The Shout sounded wholly wrong, too heavy compared to the usual crispness of the words. Even the colour was wrong, the normally sky blue tinged a darker purple.

 

The world split apart and folded, a dragon swooping out through the gap and tackling Paarthurnax into the hall, teeth at his throat. There was a stale wind at its back, the scent of old, dry dust, and death without rot.

 

The Companions were unsure whether it was a threat, Aela already aiming a shot.

 

Adrian put two finger to the shaft of her arrow, just enough pressure to let her know to lower it. She reluctantly did so, shrugging him off and aiming for the first dragon.

 

Paarthurnax threw the new dragon off with a mighty push from his wings, still grounded by the straining Dragonrend while the new dragon took to the air and struggled with the low ceiling.

 

“Dovahkiin.” It put itself between Adrian and Paarthurnax protectively. “Qahnaarin, What have you gotten yourself into?”

 

“I'll explain later, contain him.” Adrian drew another breath for a Shout, too soon from the way he struggled. “ **Joor Zah Frul**.” another breath was drawn as Dragonrend bound Paarthurnax to the ground, this one clearly painful. “ **Od Ah Viing**.”

 

This dragon was not summoned by portal, instead swooping down from its mountain roost to join the battle. It moved at such speed its approach was heralded by a screeching whistle of air, coming to a sudden stop with a thunderous blast of air that staggered everyone but Adrian.

 

This new dragon, a dark glistening red and flighty in its movement took a long moment to survey the scene before deciding whether to invest its help.

 

A decision was made, and with it he landed atop Parthurnax and held it down with its weight, snaking its head down to his side and sinking needle sharp teeth into the tender flesh there.

 

Durneviir took the chance to strike, teeth sinking into flesh, and regretted it instantly.

 

Paarthurnax reared its head back, still held by the blackened teeth of Durneviir, and Shouted.

 

“ **Fus Ro Dah**.”

 

The Companions threw themselves to the floor as one, Durneviir thrown free still with a mouthful of torn scale.

 

The coiled white-blue light of Dragonrend flickered, already growing lesser at its edges. The beast would soon be free to take to the skies and make its escape.

 

It was Vilkas that baited the trap, throwing himself into Parthurnaxs view with a battlecry.

 

He took his shield and rammed it flat edged toward the maw of the beast, shattering one of its mighty fangs and getting it to rear back with a roar of pain before snapping its head forward and open mouthed.

 

There was a crashing of mechanisms as Adrian raised both hands and as much magic as he could muster and then pulled on the twinned releases, orange light straining at his fingertips. The iron and wood bar slammed the Dragons head into the stone floor hard enough to leave a crack, slamming its jaw shut, a now blunted tooth piercing armour and flesh before flinging Vilkas aside.

 

Vilkas hit the wall limply, landing in a pile. Blood pooled about him, running between the cracks and spreading too quickly.

 

Durneviir rolled over with a grunt and strained for a moment, his left wing crooked and sharply bent out of shape where he had struck the wall.

 

The bone snapped back together, a quick test proving that it was all fine again. The Soul Cairn would broker no permanent change, for better or for worse.

 

It stalked past the mortals and the now trapped Dragon, perching next to Odahviing to watch them with mild curiosity.

 

Odahviing seemed pleased and perhaps a little smug that Alduins once most favoured lieutenant was caught in such a simple trap. He would have spoke it openly if not for the fact that he had fallen into the same trap himself many month ago and now found himself bound to the service of a new master for his mistake.

 

Adrian approached the two loyal dragons with that same enraged stride they had last seen on Solstheim an uncountable number of years ago. A single sharp look sent to court wizard back through the doors, his attempt to sneak in failing miserably.

 

Farengar was beside himself with the indignity, denied his change to study not one, not two, but three dragons.

 

“Durnaviir, how long is left on your tether?” The Dragonborn was stony faced, not from the awkward melding of souls they had been observing the last few months but instead from him trying to put up a strong front.

 

“An hour, perhaps a little more.”

 

“Then go free. I will call you again if I have need of you.”

 

“Many thanks Qahnariin.”

 

“And of me?” Odahviing let out a little puff of hot breath and irritation.

 

“I need you to deliver a message to the rest of your kind. **Aam Uv Dir**.” Adrian folded his arms over his chest, patience long since worn out. He was on the path to war.

 

“Is that all?” It gave a single, bitter laugh.

 

“Aam uv dir?” Farkas saw the look he was getting too familiar with, the one that came with a promise to tell him later. Before Adrian could dismiss the question the captured dragon answered it for him.

 

“Serve or die.”

 

Farkas had never seen Adrian lose his temper so quickly.

 

Paarthurnax watched the Dragonborn approach, starkly reminded of the destruction of the High Temple of Solstheim he had overseen upon order of his old master.

 

The Dragonborn slipped their sword from its sheath, placed a hand to the scales on the side of his skull as if deciding and with one quick motion put it through the side of the great beasts eye.

 

It thrashed in pain, not as dead as Adrian had intended but not far from it.

 

He raised his hand as if beckoning to it, drawing breath to shout with a thin smile on his face.

 

“Paarthurnax, **Ziil Los Dii Du**.”

 

Even Farkas felt it, the sensation of pulling on his soul as if Adrian was a cold winter wind stealing all of the heat from a hearth warmed room.

 

The beast writhed as its scales began to smoulder, flaking away as ash and ember. It craned its neck to look at Farkas and seemed to make one last desperate try.

 

“ **Koraav Vahzen Sil**.” The shout was its dying breath, almost lost in the rush of light that poured from it, from which Adrian drank greedily.

 

The Dragonborn drew a ward with a sweeping gesture, shattering instantly but deflecting the force away from himself. Farkas was gently skimmed by the edge of it, unharmed.

 

Adrian could be heard giving a single, sharp laugh at the last attempt to harm him.

 

Farkas looked away as the light became blinding, only the shadow Adrian cast visible through it all.

 

When he opened his eyes again the dragon was simply old bones, if he hadn’t seen it himself he would have been certain that creatures had been dead for centuries.

 

Adrians sword slid from its now empty eye socket, clattering to the floor.

 

Farkas had to pull Vilkas sword from its side, wedged between ribs.

 

The Dragonborn was still, head tilted back as if in prayer to Kyne. His breathing was at peace, as if sleeping, every muscle relaxed. There was something slightly different to him when he opened his eyes again, that slight change to how he held himself now ever so much more pronounced.

 

“I will never understand how you can perform such an act so easily.” Odahviing tilted its head away as if disgusted. “To drink from the **soul** of another **dragon** isa **vile thing. Dangerous.”**

 

“It has its uses.” Adrian shrugged strangely, arms swept back and fingers stretched wide. It was as close as a human form could come to a dragon action, but clear enough the same dismissive way Mirmulnir would flap his wings when criticised.

 

“I see it in you **.** **Poison**.” It took Farkas a moment to realise that what he was hearing, what he was understanding clearly, was not Cyrodiilic.

 

“ **Enough. Go to your task**.” Adrian spoke his Words with force, watching the dragon drop from its perch and sweep away across the plains.

 

He looked down, confused for a moment as to why Farkas had hold of his wrist. He looked up, Farkas pulling him in close for a desperate hug, awkward against armour. The tension dropped, resting his head against Farkas shoulder.

 

It jolted through him, understanding and realisation, having to take a half step back as if repulsed by the Dragonborn.

 

Farkas hid the horror he felt at what he saw. Something fell away from his sight, colour dropping form the word like it did when he turned.

 

There was black tendrils coiled inside Adrian, strangling what to his eyes seemed like broken glass. The shards seemed desperate to fit together, blocked and denied by whatever malevolent force had taken him.

 

“Are you alright, love?”

 

“Are you?” Farkas felt like he was looking at a stranger.

 

“Farkas!” Aela shouted, snapping his attention.

 

Vilkas was laid out on the stone floor in the centre of a too large pool of blood. As much as he tried not to, he could see it, that same black poison tainting the blood. Tainting all of the Circle.

 

He approached, Athis and Aela trying to haul Vilkas up so that they might get him to a healer.

 

“You should give him his sword back. No warrior should be without.” The thing that looked like Adrian patted him on the shoulder.

 

Farkas ignored him.

 

“Will he be alright?”

 

Aelas silence did not bode well. Farkas just stood and watched as they took him away. He knew he was only calm because of the high of battle and shock, and that soon he would not be.

 

He regretted looking at his hands, the branching veins beneath his skin bright black to whatever sight the dragon had granted him. Looking closer he could see it, a tinge of red and moonlight white to it, different to the faintest green hint Adrian had. The Beast Blood was kin to whatever it was that had taken the Dragonborn. Daedric power.

 

Adrian reached up, a soft touch on the back of his head pulling him in for a short kiss, a poor apology that he didn't do better by his brother.

 

Farkas did not resist, trying hard not to fight back against him.

 

Adrian stiffened as if sensing something was wrong, and still pressed forehead to forehead studied him as if for some kind of duplicity.

 

When Farkas opened his eyes he found the Dragonborn looking through him, or down at him like he was some small insect to be studied despite Farkas being a half head taller than head.

 

“There is something I need to do, alone. I'll be back at Jorrvaskr once this is all settled.”

 

“Settled?”

 

“You'll see, I promise.” Adrian pressed a kiss to the edge of his mouth, the action mechanical and practiced rather than loving, and then turned to leave.

 

Farkas watched him walk away. He could see the two largest shards bleeding together at their edges, becoming something that was either and neither without gain or loss, all shepherded by that vile black mass.

 

The sight faded.

 


	26. What about you?

 

Farkas tried to sleep, his bed too large, his heart too heavy, and his head to full of worry for one man. In a single night he had possibly lost his brother and his lover.

 

The more he thought on it the more it made sense. Adrian hadn’t come back from Solstheim, that thing wearing his skin had. His scent had changed, salt water and rotten paper, but he had been so preoccupied on that awful day with Kodlaks death that he hadn’t considered it further. A mans scent never changed so fundamentally, not so radically and so quickly. They might pick up a bit of the sea after years on a boat, or a hint of wood sap as a seasoned lumber merchant, but never in the space of only a few months and most certainly never so far a werewolf could stand before them and not recognise them.

 

It was like his suspicions had just slid off of him, some force masking his presence. Whatever it had been, or rather which Prince it had been, its power was now broken that he had seen it for what it really was. He rolled over and looked toward the bar top with its ten scratch marks from the failed turning. That should have been a massive warning, some malign force reaching up into their reality with power enough to burn the gifts of Hircine clean from his blood, but somehow it just hadn't been at the time.

 

With an irritated sound Farkas finally decided that rest was not what he needed, no matter how much Aela strongly suggested it. She had remained at the Temple with Vilkas to watch over him. It had remained unspoken that it was because someone should be there to watch the body if he should pass, and it was something no Companion would ever wish on him to have to witness.

 

Farkas reached for his armour, wavering for a moment as both sets were laid out neatly for him. He chose the guild uniform, the plain steel lacking the authority he needed.

 

He almost didn't take his sword, the one that had been a gift from Adrian. He chose to take it anyway, a fine blade worth more than the now soured sentiment behind it.

 

Athis was awake, rising to intercept Farkas before he could reach the door to bar his path.

 

“Aela was more than certain you were to stay here.” Athis waited for a response and got nothing but a very blunt look. “She said by force if necessary.”

 

The older generation of Whelps gathered around him, all under the same orders.

 

“Aela isn’t the Harbinger. She doesn't give me orders.”

 

“I’m not telling her that. Not on my life, Sera.” Athis snorted half humorously.

 

“You can’t stop me.” Farkas stood up tall, squaring his shoulders ready to throw a punch if he direly had to.

 

“Have to try.”

 

Farkas laid a single hand on his chest and half shoved half tackled Athis. He had seen Vilkas do much the same with a shield, though with considerably less weight behind it.

 

Athis landed somewhere across the hall. He didn’t get up, fully certain that Farkas would not hold back next time.

 

A slight narrowing of his eyes was all that it took for the rest of the Whelps to back down, not wishing the same fate.

 

He exited the hall calmly, not wanting to draw attention. He was fairly certain what he had planned was very illegal.

 

His determination faltered as he passed the Temple. He almost didn’t do it, eventually reasoning that he would regret it either way in the worst scenario so chose the one that felt the most right. Trying not to be noticed he pushed the door open a hands width, one last glance in at Vilkas. The scent of blood struck him, so close to his own it was almost indistinguishable. The only difference was the slighter spice of lycanthropy to it, never having taken to Vilkas quite as well as it had Farkas.

 

He was laid out on a slab, the healers not actively tending to him but nearby in observation. He was pale, but his chest could be seen rising and falling. Farkas didn’t know how he would have felt if Vilkas wasn’t breathing. Seeing him shrouded would have broken something in him.

 

He only had hope that it wouldn’t be the last time he saw his brother alive.

 

He ascended the steps to Dragonsreach, a gust of what he had at the time thought had been a strong wind nearly knocking him into the water. A short stab of pain pierced his skull, gone instantly. If he had been less preoccupied he might have noticed the night sky had ever so slightly lightened, the stars tinged ever so faintly green.

 

The side entrance was quiet, less witnesses and less chance of being discovered.

 

The guards on duty was staring absently into the wall, whistling to himself a tune Farkas was less than pleased to here. He needed no reminders of Adrian.

 

After a long moment the guard acknowledged him with a slow nod and let him into the dungeons without even a passing question. It had been too easy.

 

“Need anything?” The guard asked as he twisted the key into the lock, turning it a few times before realising it unlocked the other way, pushing open the barred gate.

 

“A bottle of the Jarls best reserve.” It was meant as a joke, hoping it somehow masked how nervous he was.

 

“Wait here.” The guard considered it for too long, shuffled away, and returned with the bottle in hand barely a minute later.

 

It was like they were sleepwalking, barely there.

 

“Thanks.” Farkas took it, taking a slow step away and leaving them to their off key whistling.

 

He approached the cell, putting the mead down on a table as he passed it.

 

He had to tap on the bars of the cell door to get their attention, standing waiting for several seconds to be noticed.

 

“Talk, quickly.” He leaned into the bars, watching the two Blades for any sign of deceit.

 

Delphine gave him an appeasing glance, finding him of little worth.

 

“Why should we?” Delphine returned to staring at the moss on the wall.

 

“I wouldn’t be so quick to dismiss him, look.” Esbern reached up for her hand, slowly being helped to his feet. Delphine had been crudely bandaged, in no condition to be helping him when she herself was finding it harder to draw breath without pain with each passing minute. Esbern was bruised, clearly not handled well by the city guard, but otherwise in far better condition than his fellow Blade.

 

Delphine said something quietly to Esbern, likely of concern, shooting Farkas a sideways glance before Esbern walked uneasily toward the gate.

 

The old man scrutinised him for a moment, reaching through the bars to turn his head slightly. Farkas obliged, ready to bite his fingers clean off if he even thought he smelled the bittersweetness of magicka.

 

“An odd request, can you make a tune for me?” Esbern finally asked after checking his eyes.

 

“Why?”

 

“Just do it. Humour an old man his eccentricities.” Esbern was playing the role, hunching slightly and moving like he elbows and knees were just not up to the task. Farkas did not believe it for a moment, having witnessed that same old man throwing spells in pursuit of them only hours before.

 

Farkas reluctantly whistled the first few notes of 'Ragnar the Red', Delphine instantly on her feet and at the bars.

 

“He hasn’t gotten to you?” She was studying him now, trying to discern what quality made him immune.

 

“What are you talking about?”

 

“The song.” Delphine gestured as if there was music all around them. There was not.

 

“What song?” Farkas was starting to lose patience with them.

 

“What she means is 'The Dragonborn Comes', can't you hear it?”

 

A moment of unremarkable silence passed by. Still nothing.

 

“Nope.”

 

“Exactly, you can't hear it. A Shout I would wager, changed to music and a song by Daedric trickery. He's already taken The Legion and The Stormcloaks with his trickery.”

 

“Taken?”

 

“They’re his now, even if they don’t quite know it. He invited Tulius and Ulfric to Whiterun so that he could get to them. Stolen what few wits either of them had to begin with.”

 

“This isn’t the place to be discussing such things.” Delphine looked over Farkas’ shoulder. The single guard on duty was standing there.

 

“Can I help you.” The guard asked as if only just noticing his presence.

 

Farkas considered his answer before trying something foolish.

 

“Let the prisoners go.” He wasn't certain it would work.

 

“Sorry, can’t do that. The Dragonborn said I can’t let them out.”

 

“The Dragonborn told you to follow my orders.” Untrue, but he hoped it would be enough.

 

There was a moment as the guard considered the two contradictory orders, his expression going suddenly blank.

 

“Can I help you?” The guard asked as if only just noticing his presence.

 

“What was the order the Dragonborn gave you?”

 

“Lock those two in a cell and don't let them out until he gives the order.”

 

“Give me the key and then go to bed.” The guard lifted his ring of keys, going through them one at a time as if drunk and finally handed the right one without protest before shuffling toward the sleeping quarters.

 

“That should not have worked.” Delphine watched the entire exchange with a look of either irritation or disbelief, Farkas not quite able to read her.

 

“Yet it did. I suggest we don't push our luck.”

 

“I have somewhere safe I can take you for now.” Farkas unlocked the cell, and with that crime against the Jarls justice dedicating himself to whatever path fate had for him.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

The Underforge was oddly hot, the air scented with something musky and spicy.

 

Esbern took a deep breath and crinkled his nose at it, pausing as if tasting the air. There was a moment of scrutiny where he seemed to be seeing or sensing something, a single glance toward Farkas all he needed to come to his conclusion.

 

“Werewolf.”

 

“What?” Farkas tried to act surprised.

 

“I'm old enough to see it, especially here.” Esbern held up his hand, a sphere of purple magicka pulling on the air around it. With a twist it changed, flickering between colours. After a few moments it seemed to balance, strands of moonlight white, a sickly shade of green, sunset orange, and a strange shade of pink-blue roiling about like ink in water. “Daedric magic, old as the bones of the world, and concentrated right here. The old hunter has marked this place as his.”

 

“Probably why I can think straight again.” Delphine rubbed at the sides of her head, screwing her eyes shut as if fighting off a headache.

 

“I wouldn’t count on it. Daedra calls to Daedra, we're just sitting in its claws rather than between its teeth.” Esbern ran his hand through the air, sampling the magicka again. “There's the power of at least four princes here, all scrambling for something. Hircine and Herma Mora most certainly, but I cannot think who else would be interested.”

 

“Not really relevant.” Delphine checked the ritual bowl, so long since the last turning that the blood stains had dried out and crumbled to thin brown powder.

 

“Very relevant.” Esbern thought for a moment, rubbing his chin and trying to summon up what he could from his days as an archivist. “Has there been anything out of the ordinary lately, more so than usual?”

 

“Nothing much.” Farkas shrugged. “The Skyforge has been moody, and there's butterflies everywhere.”

 

“Butterflies?” Esbern was instantly concerned, tensing as if suddenly aware just how much danger they were in. “We’ve got one corner of the House of Troubles, and that alone is a bad omen.”

 

“Care to explain which Prince?” Delphine had circled the Underforge, checking the Whiterun side entrance and the passage out under the city walls.

 

“Its bad luck to say his name aloud, you invite his gifts doing so.”

 

“That's all of the Princes.”

 

“I think in this case we need our wits about us, and I would rather not invite madness when the province is teetering on the precipice of Oblivion. Metaphorically and literally.”

 

“I suggest you explain. Quickly.” Farkas crossed his arms

 

“There was another Dragonborn, Miraak.” Esbern sat himself down on the ground, not particularly comfortable but not in any mood to risk going out to steal a chair from the Jorrvaskr. “The fool cut a deal with a Daedric prince and paid the price for it. Old Herma Mora trapped him in Oblivion.”

 

“And what does that have to do with Adrian?”

 

“I'm getting to it. Dragonborn are still dragons, and when one kills another you know full well what happens.”

 

“The dragons soul gets eaten.”

 

“The Dragonborn doesn’t devour the soul, they take it into themselves, make it a part of their being. Our Dragonborn was more than warned about this. By that dragon and by me. I almost dread to ask, but what happened to Paarthurnax?”

 

“Dead. So what's happened, and how do I fix it?”

 

“Cannot say I’m sad to see him ended, though his continued assistance would have made things simpler.” Esbern made a snort of disapproval. “He cannot simply be fixed, it is what he is. He drank from a poisoned cup, metaphorically speaking. By killing Miraak he invited his own doom. The soul of a mad Dragonborn, tainted by a Daedric Prince and by millennia trapped in Oblivion. That is now a part of him. There is no power that can strip Daedric magic from a soul save for the power of another Daedra.”

 

Farkas had witnessed such a thing first hand, Oblivion pouring into their quarters like stagnant water. And again later he had seen it happen in the depths of some lost Ayleid ruin.

 

“Even before this happened he was slipping.” Delphine added, having completed a full and thorough check of the Underforge. “Each dragon soul is like adding an ingredient to an alchemy recipe, keep putting them in and eventually you dilute the base.”

 

“That thing isn't the Dragonborn, not any more. Its just another dragon, worse than Alduin I'd wager, wearing his shape while old Herma-Mora pulls the strings.”

 

“I was his friend too, that's why we need to put that thing down before it dooms us all. We need to avenge our Dragonborn.”

 

“I've heard enough.” Farkas turned to the exit, hand pressed against the stone. He was fully ready to surrender them back to the Jarl.

 

“At least let me finish, so that you know just what is happening. Miraak was using the All-Maker stones on Solstheim to bend the minds of all he could touch to his will. To what end the old Dragon could not say, their kind could not approach without being ensnared. Assuming of course that the control itself was not the end he desired. Our Dragonborn has tried much the same with the Doomstones.”

 

Farkas was silent for a moment.

 

“He used a Shout. On the Ritual Stone.” It was almost a guilty confession, an admission that Adrian had done such a thing and he had witnessed it.

 

“Did you get the Words?”

 

“Gol Hah Dov.” Even thinking the Words hurt, saying aloud them caused all present to flinch.

 

“My translation might be a bit rusty, but I believe that means ‘The stones bind the mind to the dragon’ or something to that effect.”

 

“Where are they now?” Delphine rested her hand on her hip, irritated to find the empty space where her blade should have been.

 

“Gone.”

 

Farkas pushed the stone door open.

 

“What will you do?” Delphine asked, already certain they had convinced him to do what they could not.

 

“My duty as a Companion.”

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

“I believe you have company.” Odahviing tilted his head slightly, catching the edge of the werewolf on the furthest periphery of his senses.

 

“Deal with them, I don’t need interruptions.” Adrian was holding onto the conflicting forces with every bit of will he had, the Guardian Stones determined not to let him keep hold of them. They had started to crack, bleeding out the sickly green power he had borrowed from Apocrypha to make it happen. He would see the Stones shatter before giving up, too much rested on his shoulders, too many lives he could not fail.

 

“I believe that would be a bad choice. It is one of your _grohiik sunvaar._ I believe it may be your one specifically.”

 

“His name is Farkas.” Adrian turned away from his work just enough to give the dragon a disapproving look. “My Farkas.”

 

“Remind me again in a century or two, see if his name is important enough to remember then.” The dragon curled back against itself, in either defence or indignation.

 

Farkas was heading for them at some speed, Adrian only realising at the last moment that Farkas had his sword out and was most certainly readied for a fight.

 

“ **Feim.”** Farkas’ sword passed through him in a diagonal arc, shuddering against the ground.

 

“ **Fus Ro Dah.”** It was the Dragon that reacted first, Adrian too stunned to respond.

 

Farkas was thrown back some distance, skidding and rolling across the poorly maintained road.

 

“So much for ‘My Farkas’ it seems.” Odahviing made a sound that might have been a laugh.

 

Adrian ignored him, taking a steadying breath to slow his thundering heart  as he fell back into step with reality with a lurch . 

 

“What in the name of Oblivion has possessed you?”

 

“I could ask you that.” Farkas almost growled, rising to his knees shakily and finding nothing immediately broken.

 

“Oh.”

 

“I know what you’re doing.” Farkas motioned to the Stones as he picked himself up from the ground, their sickly light still reaching out for Adrian.

 

He reached for his fallen blade, leaping forward at a sprint fully intending to strike again.

 

“ **Spaan Thuum Oblaan**.” Adrian took another breath and stood tall, suddenly all too calm. “Stop.”

 

F arkas stopped mid step, the protection placed on him all those months ago at the Ritual stone now revoked.

 

Adrian made a gesturing motion to where he had left his travel pack, a wrapped bundle tied to the side snapping open and two golden halves drew to his hand.

 

“ **Qah Krent Vo**.” the sheared halves of the mask clicked together easily, their edges burning hot for a moment before sealing, the join so perfect it was impossible to see it had ever been damaged.

 

“Let me go.” Farkas managed to move his arm slightly before the force of the command bore down on him.

 

“And if I do?” That accent was back, all the more noticeable now as he held that awful mask with a strange reverence. It wasn’t a far leap for Farkas to guess who's mask it had been originally.

 

“I'll end you.” Farkas growled, teeth sharp and eyes burning white. The beast strained and grew. Sharp teeth and sharp claws formed, Adrian seeing absolutely no threat.

 

With just a pointed nod it retreated, suppressed and crushed by a will much more terrible than its own.

 

“I thought you would understand.” Adrian considered explaining. Miraak wouldn’t, Adrian would. The Dragonborn chose to do it. “I tried everything. Ulfric wouldn’t listen, and Tullius hid behind his orders. I could stall the war but not stop it. Then Miraak happened, and the solution fell into my hands.”

 

He motioned broadly toward the broken Stones bleeding the bastard offspring of Daedric magic and Thuum with a look of accomplishment. Farkas could see the strain in him, the depth of his breath and the sweat on his brow. He was still tied to it, channelling and governing the forces. He didn't need to see it to know the thing in him, the poison clouding his mind, was tainting those forces toward its own designs.

 

“And you thought to do what, conquer Skyrim so they couldn’t have it?”

 

Adrian looked right at him, hoping he would see reason from his perspective.

 

“Miraak's memories showed me things, truths I was woefully unprepared to discover myself. He wanted to fix the world, I just happened to be the only thing that could free him from his prison. I killed him thinking he was just another evil to defeat, and while I had to for my own sake I only wish there could have been another way.”

 

“So what, you picked up his insane plan because you pitied him?”

 

“Pity? No.” Adrian shook his head. “Its hard to say where he ends and I begin. I remember his whole life, his struggles and failures slowly revealed themselves to me. I remember seeing my own life through his perspective and his through mine. It was not a fast process, nor was it easy on either of us. I don’t pity Miraak. I am Miraak. And Adrian. Dragonborn.”

 

“And selling yourself to Hermaeus Mora?”

 

“He forced my hand, but I won’t begrudge what power I can steal from him. Or the perspective I gained from Oblivion.” Adrian was not hiding the accent now. “I saw it all. Every war, every conflict, every last shift in power from the Dragons until now. He had the best seat in the theatre to all of Tamriels history, and decided no more.”

 

“What about that song? The Blades told me about it.”

 

Adrian cursed not dealing with them properly. He had been more concerned with moving forward, especially if the Dragons were willing to move against him. Paarthurnax had apprentices now, and they were certainly not far behind.

 

“Here in my temple. Here in my shrine. That you have forgotten.” There was a tone to how he said it, commanding and rehearsed. “That was how I first heard it, how Miraak did it. Pattern and repetition carrying an idea. 'our hero, our hero' and 'beware, the Dragonborn comes' are powerful concepts, good for carrying a command.”

 

“So you forced all of Skyrim to listen?”

 

“It wasn’t enough. I couldn’t make them stop.” Adrian seemed almost remorseful for a flicker of a moment, “The Guardian Stones are each more powerful than the three lesser Stones they rule over combined, but also tied to them. I couldn't take them without the rest, and I couldn't hold onto the rest forever without them. I had to renew the Ritual Stone three times before I figured that out. They just aren’t the All-Maker Stones, too different to work without constant maintenance. Its all or nothing, complete power or civil war. Control or death.”

 

“I've heard enough.” Farkas almost spat the words.

 

“I’m not going to release you until you understand.”

 

“Then I guess we'll just wait until this spell breaks.” The threat was unspoken and very clear.

 

“Is that your final answer?”

 

“It is.” Farkas knew what would happen.

 

He saw the shift in his stance. Even his scent changed, the last hints of wood ash drowning in ink and salt water. He placed the mask over his face, titling his head slightly until it felt comfortable in what seemed to be a well practiced way.

 

There was a drawing of breath from the perched dragon.

 

“Do not interfere.” The Dragonborn held a hand up toward Odahviing. “Under any circumstances.”

 

“As you wish.” The dragon just coiled up tighter around his rock, simply watching.

 

Adrian tried to say something, tried to come up with a justification for what he had to do. He found none worth saying. What he did was to save Skyrim, and Farkas had already refused it.

 

“I love you.” The voice was distorted, echoing and reverberating through the metal until it was barely recognisable as Adrian.

 

“I'll guess I'll be seeing Skjor and Kodlak soon.” Farkas simply relaxed. He had done what he could, satisfied his honour with the attempt. There was no dishonour in falling against a greater foe. He closed his eyes, taking no joy in the soft touch of his hand as the sword was prised from his grip.

 

He could feel a palm against his cheek, and a kiss to his lip before that awful mask was lowered again.

 

For a brief moment Farkas thought that Adrian was starting to doubt himself, at least that was how it felt from the tremble of the blade again his armour. The tip was rested snugly between two of the plates where only heat hardened leather protected him, aimed right below Farkas’ ribs. A single shallow thrust would be all that was needed.

 

Adrian didn't even flinch when Farkas shifted, rivets snapping apart and the armour falling away completely. There had been no gap in his control, he had simply allowed him the chance to die as the wolf if only so he wouldn’t have to look upon his face.

 

He leaned forward, resting his head against his chest. He had always marvelled how soft and lovely his fur was when other werewolves always seemed so unkept and scraggly. It was likely because there was no conflict between Farkas and the wolf, that harmony reflected in his form. Farkas leaned down, resting his head against his shoulder.

 

There was a moment where the Dragonborn faltered. Adrian doubted himself. Miraak did not.

 

The Dragonborn slid the blade through him effortlessly, front to back. In return Farkas opened his jaw wide sunk his teeth into him.

 

 


End file.
